


The Final Mystery

by hampop



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, OC, Slow Burn, Warning: occasional gore, self indulgent, warning: animal death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:00:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 46,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22808260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hampop/pseuds/hampop
Summary: Emily Kaldwin announces to the Isles that Kirin Jindosh has died at Addermire. Perhaps it once might have been a tragic loss for the empire, but it hardly makes the front page since his mental collapse. The people of the isles ponder the mystery, grow bored of it, and forget. In a fortress tucked away in the frozen forests of Tyvia, Kirin Jindosh awakes to clear thoughts for the first time in weeks.
Relationships: Kirin Jindosh/Original Character(s)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 56





	1. The Solution

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: animal death, gore, violence

1  
THE ADDERMIRE INSTITUTE  
_15th Day, Month of Rain, 1852_  
Alexandria Hypatia sits at her desk, organizing a drawer full of files that had been neglected. She was behind in her work—both in and out of the office. So many patients of hers had been through in the past couple of weeks. Hypatia had been seeing to as many of them as she could between recuperating from her own ailments. She was doing her best to put the actions she’d committed as Grim Alex behind her and press onward; she had admitted several patients into the recovery wing of the institute and had hired a handful of aids to assist her in her daily routines. Since opening the institute to the public again, she’d been going nonstop.  
Hypatia lies the paperwork on her desk and brushes a thin layer of dust off of the top. The particles dance in the sunlight bleeding through the window and she takes a moment to watch them hover and sparkle in the air. She had no time to dally and she knew this; the months she had lost to Grim Alex couldn’t be replaced and there were people who needed her complete attention and focus. She opens the folder and begins to sift through the patient’s file.  
There’s a knock on her office door and she looks up with a start, seeing the blurry silhouette of one of her assistants through the thick glass.  
“Come in,” she calls to them, closing the file. She hoped this would be brief.  
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Dr. Hypatia. But there’s visitor here for you.”  
Hypatia is admittedly confused by his statement. Or, more accurately, she is confused that he’s telling her something so minor. She shakes her head a bit, a curious smile on her face, and asks, “Is there something particularly interesting about this visitor?”  
He chuckles, perhaps a bit embarrassed. “No. It’s just that your presence has been specifically been requested.”  
“It’s not an emergency is it?” Hypatia’s face falls a tad as she stands from her chair, grasping her coat. “No one’s hurt?”  
The assistant holds both hands out in front of him, shaking them. “No, no,” he says, helplessly. Hypatia realizes, perhaps a little too late, that he’s equally as confused and uninformed as she is.  
“Alright then,” she smiles, crossing around the desk. She needed to relax; there would always be time to get her work done. The people of this city came first, after all. “Let’s greet them.” She takes care to lock her office door and adjust her hair in the reflection of the glass. She looked like death, but it would have to do.  
“Were you given a name?” Hypatia inquires as the pair make their way to the front hall. There are construction workers mingling about the building, repairing parts of the institute that had fallen into disrepair from water damage and general wear and tear. The echoing sound of hammers meeting nails and wood being sawed reverberates deep into the institute’s halls. Peace and quiet was hard to come by, for now. But she couldn’t—wouldn’t— let citizens inside unless the building was up to code.  
“No, ma’am.” Says the assistant. Then, with enthusiasm, he adds, “But I assume they’re Tyvian.”  
“You assume?” asks the good doctor, raising a light brown eyebrow. They’re coming up on the stairs leading to the carriage. “Based on what?”  
But as they rounded the corner and caught their first sight of the visitors, Hypatia understood. It was how they were dressed. Tyvia’s expansive continent was little more than a frozen waste, the primary populace taking the form of rabid wildlife. Of the civilizations that had managed to thrive out there—Caltan, Tamarak, Alexin, Meya, Yaro, Pradym, Samara, Wei-Ghon, and their capital city of Dabokva—very few lived in absolute comfort. Every aspect of their lives hinged on survival and stubborn perseverance. As a direct result, they dressed practically and without a great deal of flair. If the people of Dunwall dressed to indicate their class, the people of Morely to express individuality and culture, and the people of Serkonos to mimic their rich history and architecture—the people of Tyvia dressed to . . . well, quite frankly, stay alive.  
These individuals who were gathered around the carriage were not reclining against the railings or sitting idly on the benches provided to them. They stood briskly, straight as an arrow, and at attention. The only indication that they were, in a sense, at rest was the occasional wistful glance out at the expansive teal sea. Even then, though, Hypatia could not see their eyes. They wore red goggles which covered the majority of their upper face. Their black collars were high and stiff, framing their pale and hardened faces. Their jackets were long—almost down to their feet!—and as black as the coal from Karnaca’s mines. Though they were also equipped with scarfs to cover the bottom of their faces, the cloth was lowered. Likely these were standard guard uniforms and therefore, despite the high probability of discomfort, they could not go without wearing them abroad.  
Hypatia’s eyes are drawn to the only figure who stands out. She is the only individual within the group who is moving about. Pacing, in fact, if not with great leisure. Both hands—gloved—were behind her back as she walked. The clicking of her heels on the stone balcony sounded almost like a metronome keeping a steady and consistent pace.  
The most striking thing about her, perhaps, was her face.  
Not because of her beauty, though nature had been very kind to her indeed. But because of the familiarity.  
“Sokolov?” Asks Hypatia, almost dreamlike. The guards take notice of her presence and stand at attention somehow straighter than before. The woman stops walking and looks up at Hypatia. The good doctor sucks in a breath.  
Her eyes were green, like ever greens, an unnatural color that might appear lovely at first but soon became unnerving. And the gaze itself was another thing altogether. This woman’s thoughts were . . . unkind. Analytical. All knowing. Her hair was so, so dark. In Serkonos, men and women sported black hair but the undertones were warm browns. Her hair gleamed gray and blue in the sunlight—cold. She was, undeniably, a Sokolov.  
“Ah, Dr. Hypatia. It is indeed an honor. I hope you’ll pardon my sudden arrival.”  
Alexandria shakes her head, attempting to clear her thoughts. “It’s no trouble. But, and you must forgive me, do I know you? Personally?”  
The young woman looks, abruptly, very embarrassed. Her jaw drops a bit and she stammers, shifting from one foot to the next. Like this, she suddenly appears much more human.  
“I thought—? Oh, well, I suppose it was never in father’s nature to talk about anyone other than himself. He’s never mentioned me in any of his autobiographies, either, so it’s not inconceivable that he didn’t reference me to you in the middle of a coup.” Her words are carefully chosen, one after the other. It sounded almost like she was reciting it, like poetry, in her subtle Tyvian accent. “I’m Amelia, Anton Sokolov’s daughter.”  
She extends one slender, gloved hand to Dr. Hypatia, who takes it without thinking. Hypatia didn’t want to think it, but the indecent thought pierced her mind nevertheless.  
_Is she one of Sokolov’s many bastard children?_  
Alexandria forces a smile, trying her best to conceal her thoughts.  
“He didn’t discuss his—,” What’s the right word here? “—family with me, no. But we weren’t especially close.”  
“I’m sure you can see the resemblance, though.” Amelia smiles and action seems rehearsed. “I’ve heard that I’ve inherited his nose.”  
“You’ve inherited almost everything, I would say.” Dr. Hypatia tilts her head, studying the younger woman’s features curiously. “Though you’re much younger and fairer.”  
Hypatia realizes she’s been staring for a little too long and blushes a light pink, clearing her throat. Amelia grins with more authenticity, apparently amused. “Can I help you with anything? It looks as though you’ve all traveled far to reach us here. What business do you bring?”  
The young woman puts both of her hands behind her back again, looking up at Addermire’s bleached walls. “I’ve come from Tyvia where I work at a very similar institute. Perhaps you’ve heard of the Sechenov Foundation in Caltan?”  
Hypatia draws her hands to her midsection, clasping them there. “Yes, of course.”  
“I’m travelling around the isles trying to gather research for a thesis of mine. It’s over neurological damage and the regeneration of damaged cells within the brain. As I’m sure you know, finding cases where the mutilation to the brain tissue isn’t catastrophic is incredibly rare. I need cases where the subject is still coherent enough to answer a selected array of questions.”  
Hypatia takes in the words and processes them in silence. She housed a number of patients in the recovery wing who might be suitable for this study. Most of them were miners who had suffered several concussions and as a result could speak but could not hold a spoon or walk. Still, the majority had families who, with their power of attorney, need to be asked permission. That left two who had no remaining family and who were lucid enough to take part.  
Well, technically, three.  
“I understand,” Says Alexandria. “Though I must say you’re far more ambitious than I was at your age. I’ve never travelled so far for the sake of a thesis. Are you headed anywhere else after this?”  
“Dunwall, likely,” says Amelia, gesturing north with a tilt of her chin. “But that’s only if we don’t find anything here. You’re our last stop in Serkonos. We were hoping to voyage home after this.”  
The doctor looks over Amelia’s shoulder at the four to five guards. “If you don’t mind me asking, why do you have an entourage with you?”  
“This research has been backed by the High Judges themselves.”  
Alexandria’s mouth opens to say something, but no words come to her. Surely not, she thinks to herself, what business do they have with research such as this? Why would the Judges be involved at all when this sort of thing was usually commissioned by a high ranking physician of their court?  
Her skepticism must have been clearly written on her face. Amelia closes her eyes and smiles, letting out a small chuckle. Without a word, she reaches into the double breasted coat she’s wearing and pulls out a letter with the High Judges’ official watermark. “Here’s the requisition.”  
After a brief argument, Hypatia finds herself leading the supposed Sokolov down the newly refurbished hallway of the recovery wing. Despite her objections, the younger woman had brought along a guardsman with her. “I can assure you the patients are harmless. Most of them are quite gentle and kind. Of the two you’ll be visiting, neither of them has ever given me or my assistants any trouble.”  
“I’m sure you’re right, Doctor. I told the High Judges the same thing but they insisted that a member of the guard accompany me to make sure I don’t run into any problems. I promise you that he will not speak or interact with the patients whatsoever.”  
Amelia is looking through the shimmering glass windows rather than where they were going. She’s holding a small journal and a physician’s bag in the crease of her arm. The guardsman trails behind her, saying nothing but keeping up their pace.  
There’s a bitter taste on Hypatia’s tongue. This was incredibly inappropriate. These men were under her care and their confidential information was theirs and theirs alone. It felt like an exhibition, to allow some stranger from Tyvia to access their private lives. Not only that, but what jurisdiction did the Tyvian council of judges have here in Karnaca? Was this something she should have written to the Duke about first? Then again, it was only a research request. Perhaps it was unbefitting of the Duke to deal with such trivial things.  
And this woman? She was a Sokolov, at least that much was clear. Her relation to Anton coupled with the official requisition from Tyvia made questioning her legitimacy as a researcher very difficult.  
Ultimately, speaking to the patients would be harmless. It was intrusive, yes, but it wasn’t illegal.  
She leads the two visitors to Mr. Garcia and Mr. Rivera, two coal miners who were both perfect for the study and delightful individuals. Mr. Garcia greeted the Tyvian’s with enthusiasm and answered their questions using the basic sign language that Hypatia’s assistants had been teaching him. Mr. Rivera was a little more reserved, embarrassed by the sudden visit, but he opened up after Alexandria’s patient encouragement.  
Dr. Hypatia presided over both interviews. She sat next to Amelia as the young woman read from a list of questions written down in a battered journal. The so-called Sokolov offered no encouragement or warmth of any kind to either patient; when she asked a question, it was never accompanied with a smile, and when she got an answer she did not deliver praise of any sort. Hypatia took this duty upon herself and ended up becoming decently frustrated by the end of the whole affair. Had this woman been conducting all her research this way? Was her stoic behavior part of the study? If so, she had done nothing to stop Hypatia from giving positive reinforcement.  
Alexandria stifled her irritation. Young philosophers were sometimes just . . . unattached.  
“Well, I hope that was informative. As I said, there are very few guests here who are available for open visits.” Hypatia intentionally words herself this way, attempting to politely push the young woman toward the exit. “I’m sorry we couldn’t do more to help you.”  
Amelia, who had still been writing something down in her book, looked up from her work. There’s a bit of hesitance, then she begins, slowly, “Doctor, if you don’t mind my boldness, I had heard a rumor about one of your patients here. I was hoping he would be one of the men you introduced me to.”  
Even with the vague nature of the statement, Hypatia immediately understood who the Tyvian philosopher was referring to.  
“I’m sorry, but if you’re talking about who I think you are, visitations for that patient have been strictly forbidden by Empress Emily Kaldwin.”  
Even with the decisiveness of her words, Amelia continued to apply pressure. “So he is here? I had my doubts. Please, if I could just talk to him for a moment—,”  
“That is enough.” Hypatia rarely allowed herself to give way to anger. It felt too familiar. “I don’t wish to be rude, but I’ve given you what you came for. I must now ask you to leave.”  
The hallway is quiet. The clouds move outside, causing the glass to glow.  
“Dr. Hypatia!”  
Alexandria turns to see another one of her assistants racing down the corridor, her face drained of color. She skids to a stop a few feet from them, bracing herself against a wall. “There’s a fire in the disease treatment facility!”  
Hypatia jolts. “How is that possible?” She questions, seemingly to no one, running toward where the assistant had come from.  
“One of the Bunsen burners had been turned over—,” the assistant gasps, “We’re struggling to put out all of the papers and journals but it’s spreading—,”  
Hypatia begins to follow the assistant toward the ruckus, but stops and turns to her Tyvian guest. Amelia looks startled, glancing between her guardsman and the founder of the institute. “Go, we’ll be here. Do what you have to do.”  
Alexandria’s eyes narrow in a flickering moment of suspicion. But she cannot afford to falter, following the assistant down the hall and around the corner.  
Amelia and the guardsman watch her go and pause a moment, contemplating, before the young woman turns toward her companion and says in Tyvian, “We don’t have much time, now do we? We mustn’t dally. Help me find the room.”  
The pair begin peeking through the doors of the recuperation hall, calling out to one another when their findings turn up negative. It is when Amelia reaches the last door on the right that she motions for the guardsman to come over. “He’s here,” she murmurs to herself, almost lightheaded with excitement.  
She could see him in his bed, sleeping peacefully. There would have been no chance of identification had his left hand not been dangling off the side—showcasing a missing thumb and index finger. After trying the door and finding it to be locked, she places her right hand against it and braces her legs.  
“You’re going to want to stand back,” she advises to the guardsman. He obliges without issue.  
In one concise motion, she reels her arm back, balls her fist, and punches the door, sending it nearly flying off its hinges. It hits the neighboring wall with a mighty racket, waking up the resident within the room. Amelia and her guardsman enter, glancing at the door and taking note of the dent in the metal. “What a shame,” says the Tyvian woman, “That will be rather hard to explain. We’ll need to act fast.”  
She then looks, at last, at Kirin Jindosh. The man is huddled against the corner of his bed, looking positively terrified and confused. His hair had grown long and had started to curl at the ends. His face was speckled with the beginnings of a beard. And his eyes were wide and completely empty. He looked like a child—frightened and helpless and entirely distressed.  
“Who are you?” he asks. Even the way he talked was indicative of his mental state. The words gave away his feelings of fear almost immediately. “Wh-what are you doing in here?”  
“Calm yourself, Grand Inventor,” Amelia raises both hands, demonstrating that she was supposedly unarmed. “My name is Amelia. And this Franz. Go on and take your mask off, Franz, so that our friend can see your face.”  
The guardsman does as he’s told, revealing his face to the former inventor of Serkonos. The two men stare at one another in quiet observation. Eventually, Franz says, “You weren’t kidding. He looks almost just like me.”  
“I told you so,” says Amelia with a smile. “It’s uncanny.”  
Then she returns her attention to Jindosh who is still cowering against the wall. “I’ve come a very long way to find you, dear. I know you don’t know me and you must be very frightened, but I’ve brought you a gift.”  
She smiles at him and it is perhaps the only real smile she’s given all day. She extends a hand towards the grand inventor who stares at it for a moment or so. Tentatively, he places his shaking hand into her own and she helps pull him toward the edge of the bed, careful to go nice and slow.  
“There you are,” she coos, reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair out of his pale eyes. “I’m so excited to give you this present. I’ve been working on it for months, you see. And when I heard about you, I thought to myself—this is the most deserving person to gift it to.”  
Jindosh smiles as she speaks to him, almost shyly. She can see his cheeks flush. “Oh, I do enjoy presents.” He glances up at her, then away just as quickly. So bashful.  
“I know,” she hums, reaching into her satchel bag and plucking out a shining metal piece.  
It looks like a beetle of some sort, almost. Its front is smooth and gleaming with a single raised, circular spot in the middle. The underside has several needles protruding out of it, like legs. She presses the circular spot and it glows bright blue—powered by crystalized whale oil—and the needles spread out, ready for injection.  
Jindosh looks at it quizzically. When it activates, he pales and seems to retreat somewhat. Amelia places a single, heavy hand on top of his own. “Don’t be afraid. I would never hurt you.” And she means it.  
“Turn around for me, please,” she instructs, giving patient and encouraging smiles to the former inventor. He hesitates initially but finally obeys like the child he is, looking toward his bedroom window at the waters of Karnaca Bay.  
Amelia runs a finger down the back of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine. She finds the position she’s looking for and carefully, painstakingly, places the device onto the back of Jindosh’s neck. Upon contact, the device clamps down onto the flesh, the needles diving into the skin and nerves. A jolt of electricity races into his brain, surging with immense intensity. Jindosh lets out a panicked yelp of pain before his knees give out beneath him. Amelia catches him with her right arm alone, holding him up and against her with relative ease despite their weight differences. She carefully sets him down on the bed, lifting one eyelid then another. His pupils had dilated. The device was working.  
“We’re running out of time,” says the guardsman, glancing into the hallway. “She’ll be back soon. Give him to me and I’ll carry him.”  
“That won’t be necessary,” says Amelia, running a gloved hand down the inventor’s docile face. His eyes open, slowly, and he stares at her blankly. He’s caught somewhere between awake and asleep. Perfect.  
“What do you mean? That’s why I’m here—,”  
“You do really look like him. It’s actually frightening.” Amelia helps the inventor sit up on the bed where he stares vacantly at the wall in front of him. “I really just got lucky when I found you. I wasn’t sure how I was going to make this work.”  
The guardsman’s brow furrows. His mouth opens and he stammers, trying to find the words. The young woman—Sokolov—stands up and faces the guardsman in a reposed nature. She steps toward him, raising her hands to his cheeks. He freezes, unsure of what else he could possibly do, and frantically stares into her green eyes. “Future generations will have you to thank for the age of advancements to come.”  
She pulls his face down to hers and gives him a soft kiss on his forehead before twisting and snapping his neck with a satisfying ‘crack’. He falls limp to the floor.  
~  
Hypatia’s back is pressed flat against the wall. She covers her mouth with one slim hand, her jaw clenched. She waits and watches as two members of the Karnaca Guard hover by the window of the small recuperation room, lowering grapples into the bay just below. They heave, the muscles of their backs straining, and place their boots on the windowsill for leverage. Three of her assistants wait in the hall—one of which was Mr. Jindosh’s personal attendant. They are equally as quiet.  
“Almost . . . got ‘em!” grunts one of the guardsman. He strains as he reaches through the window and grabs the body by one leg and one arm. His companion helps him guide the corpse through the window, laying it carefully on the ground.  
One of the assistants gasps and turns, backing away from the scene. Hypatia smells human meat mixed with sea salt and closes her eyes to keep herself grounded. She pushes herself off of the wall and approaches the body, looking down at the remains.  
It had been partially eaten by hagfish. The entire left side of his face was gone, just bits of red on bone. He was missing both legs, one from the calf down and one from the thigh down. He must have went head first; his neck was snapped at an atrocious angle.  
“Is it him?” Asks one of the guardsmen.  
Hypatia is ashamed to say she cannot tell. His face had been both eaten and smashed against the rocks. It was bruised and swollen. She can remember the inventor from her time with him, the memory of his tanned and thin face, but it’s no use.  
“Lena,” she turns to Jindosh’s personal attendant. “I’m going to need you to identify the body.”  
The young girl is in tears. She had become very close to her charge and, from her reports, had cared for him deeply. She had brushed his hair in the morning and helped him go for walks. They were friends.  
She drags her feet on the way over, looking anywhere but to the corpse. By the look on her face, she was about to be sick from the smell alone. Finally, she looks down and lets out a gut-wrenching sob, covering her face and turning into Hypatia’s shoulder to cry.  
“It’s him.” Hypatia says. “Thank you, but we’ll take it from here. Andrew, prepare the body for cremation. I need to write to Emily.”  
And what to say? That some Tyvian woman claiming to be Anton Sokolov’s daughter arrived unannounced and that Alexandria had allowed her to confer with a select few patients and, somehow, by the end of the day, her disease treatment lab was nearly burnt to a crisp and Kirin Jindosh was dead? How to begin? The group of Tyvians were gone by the time Hypatia and her crew were able to stop the fire and salvage the remains. The door to Jindosh’s room was somehow caved in on itself and it dangled from the hinges. What could have done such a thing? There were no traces of damage in the hall or in the room, either. Just a window left open and a body in the ocean below it. Did she break in just to kill Jindosh? Was she a Tyvian assassin? Why, now that Jindosh was harmless?  
Alexandria poises with a pen over the paper. She relays this to the empress who, two weeks later, responds:  
_Dr. Hypatia,  
I’m sorry to hear about your disease treatment facility. I hope nothing was lost that can’t be replicated.  
In regards to Jindosh, I must admit I am baffled by why anyone would kill him in the state he was in. As it stands, I cannot confirm if this woman was really Anton’s biological daughter. Anton never mentioned her or any children to me or my father. It is possible she was lying. I can write to Sokolov and ask him, but I’m certain he has a plethora of children he is unaware of.  
Losing Jindosh is unfortunate. I did everything in my power to ensure he survived, if only at the cost of his intellect. At this time, there is nothing we can do but take better precautions.  
Please don’t blame yourself for this. He had many enemies. They simply caught up to him.  
Best regards,  
Her Imperial Majesty  
Emily Drexel Lela Kaldwin  
First of Her Name, Empress of the Isles _


	2. Coming to Terms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep in mind that I know NOTHING about medical/surgical/neurological information. I'm just a simple writer who has access to google and little to no comprehension.

2  
**A PERMAFROSTED FOREST, TYVIA**  
_23rd Day, Month of Wind_  
Kirin Jindosh stirs from his sleep and rolls onto his back, blinking groggily at the ceiling. It’s ornate; copper metal tinged a light green from age, forming a hexa-comb pattern. _Ah,_ , he thinks to himself, _this building is old—those types of structural designs aren’t used in modern architecture._  
And as he finishes this thought, another comes. Then another. Fluid, articulated, complex. He is immediately at attention. He tries to sit up but his back aches and the rush of blood to his brain nearly knocks him out cold. He feels nauseous, yes, but he is _alert_. Cognitive! Memories begin to come back into focus like buoys surfacing out of the ocean.  
He knew his name, his title, and his life’s work. For months these things had been shrouded in fog. He knew them to be true, yes, but they seemed to belong to someone else. Now, they were _his_ again.  
He tests his cerebral capabilities by observing the room around him. And what a magnificent room it was! High ceilings supported by walls of book shelves and long, thick glassed windows. There were tables all around him with jars containing body parts floating in ammonia. Trays of surgical tools were on each, some of them recently tampered with and others neat and organized. Papers and open journals were stacked up here and there, littered with scratchy handwriting. He is at the center of the room on a metal table meant for surgery.  
That final realization startles him and he looks down at his body, covered in a surgical gown, and begins patting here and there for signs of pain or loss. He checks his legs, his chest, his stomach, and finally reaches up to his face then the back of his neck—  
—Where he discovers a cold, metal object firmly attached.  
The sound of a door opening at the front of the room draws his attention. He tenses up, starting to finally grasp the sort of situation he might be in, and glances around for anything to defend himself with. Fortunately, the surgical tools are abundant; he reaches for a pair of forceps and finds to his dismay that he cannot seem to grasp them in his hand.  
“You shouldn’t try that, you’re going to end up hurting yourself.”  
There is a woman at the door. She holds a platter of food, the steam from a bowl coming up and clouding her round glasses.  
Kirin glares between the forceps, his shaking grasp, and the intruder. “What is this? What have you done to me?”  
The woman sets the platter down on one of the work tables, sweeping aside some of her notes to do so. She takes up a glass of water from the platter and begins to approach the surgical table.  
“You mean what have I done _for you?_ ” She hands him the glass of water with a gloved hand, presenting it like a sort of peace offering. He can’t deny how dry his throat feels and reluctantly reaches out to take it.  
“Both hands,” she instructs. “You’ll drop it, otherwise.”  
He stops moving. His hands were indeed already shaking where they hovered between him and the glass. Jindosh tries to clench his fists only to find that his muscle memories has seemingly forgotten how.  
“What’s . . . wrong with me?” He grits his teeth together, rage bubbling inside of him.  
The young woman tilts her head to the side and says nothing. The glass of water in her hand is completely still. “Do you not remember? You were visited by Emily Kaldwin, not too long ago.”  
At the name, Jindosh is already twisting himself around, throwing his legs over the side of the table. _Calm down now, Kirin,_ he urges himself, _Such a thing couldn’t possible have happened to you—_  
He tries to stand up. Both feet hit the ground, then the weight of his body on his knees proves to be too much. They buckle under him and he attempts to walk forward or catch himself but his appendages do not obey—cannot obey. He nearly hits the ground face first had the woman not caught him just before. Her arm snakes around his middle and he remembers thinking very briefly that the limb was bizarrely solid and hard. Then all thoughts, even calming ones, are whisked away as he remembers exactly what happened to him on that hot, dreadfully boring afternoon.  
When he closes his eyes he can still see the veins of electricity flashing about and hear the strange humming of the void in his ears. He can hear himself, too, remember his words and the fear—the helpless dread—in his voice as he pleaded with her. Then it was gone.  
Jindosh feels his stomach heave. A trash bin appears before him just before he can empty the contents of his stomach onto the floor. A soothing hand rubs his back. He cannot stop the shuddering convulsions, even long after he had nothing left to vomit. The woman moves the trash bin aside and sits next to him on the floor, a hand still placed in the center of his back.  
“I’m sorry,” she says plainly, “I shouldn’t have brought it up so suddenly. I just thought you deserved to know as soon as possible.” From where Kirin is sitting in his hunched over position, all he can see are the strands of dark black hair pooling on her lap. His mind begins to clear up again and he thinks he might actually recognize her.  
“My motor functions are . . . damaged, to say the least. That can’t be an effect of the electro shock machine. None of my experiments ever suffered from neuro damage that severe.” He is both anxious due to his lack of mobility and relieved at how easily the thoughts come to him. But mostly, he is tired.  
“No, it isn’t. I can explain everything to you when you’ve had more time to adjust. For now, let’s get you off the floor, shall we?”  
-

Humiliation and unease burns hot in his stomach. He’s seated in a wheel chair with a tray attached to the handles. His platter of food sits there on the tray—a steaming boil of vegetable soup, a slice of sourdough bread, a glass of hot tea and the glass of ice water. The silverware clinks against the dishes as he is rolled down the long corridors of the home.  
Home wasn’t the word for it. It looked like an old green house; the rooms were clearly once either laboratories or offices. The outer walls were made of glass, supported by dark green metal framework. “Where are we?” He asks the woman who is pushing him down the hall. They take a turn down one of the warm hallways and the entire left side is made of glass, allowing him to see the bright white forest just beyond.  
“We’re in Tyvia,” she says simply, “Just outside of Dabokva. This is my home. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, it wasn’t always mine. Once it belonged to a retired philosopher who opened his doors to the public to give lessons in botany. You were in one of the former classrooms when you woke up. I’ve converted most of them into private studies. But I still have more rooms than I know what to do with.”  
“It’s a green house, isn’t it?” He asks, noticing how warm it was despite the cold just beyond the threshold.  
“It is. But I must admit, I don’t know anything about botany. I just don’t have a use for it. But this place is quite convenient for me.”  
She ushers him into a grand entrance hall made of iron and wood. The ceiling was glass and lit the room in a bright, almost blinding light. Iron columns held the structure up and lined the room on either side. She obviously didn’t take many guests—the room lacked décor aside from a dark green carpet leading from the mahogany doors to the staircase on the other end of the room. There were no table, nowhere to sit, and . . .  
“Are we alone here?” Jindosh asks, noting how quiet it’s been all along.  
“I’m afraid so,” she admits. “You won’t find any serving staff or guardsmen here, Mr. Jindosh. I’ve sent them all away.”  
“This house is ginormous,” Kirin counters, raising a brow at her despite knowing she could not see it. “You can’t possibly run it all on your own.”  
She wheels him into a sitting room off to the side of the house. The furniture is covered in a very thin but present layer of dust. The fireplace is unlit and the curtains are drawn. She positions the former inventor near the sofa and goes to start a fire.  
From here, he can see her face properly. She looked incredibly familiar. Almost eerily. But his memory still buzzed if he focused too hard.  
“I’ll manage. Couldn’t allow anyone to know about you. If news somehow got to Emily Kaldwin that you were alive and well—,”  
“The Empress thinks I’m dead?”  
“Ah, yes, I faked your death. Should have mentioned that, I suppose. So, officially, everyone thinks you’re dead.” The woman turns from her work to give him an apologetic shrug. “It had to happen.”  
Jindosh is overwhelmed. And rightfully pissed.  
“I need you to start from the beginning. Are you planning on introducing yourself any time soon?”  
The woman turns and the look on her face is peculiar indeed. “I actually thought you’d recognize me by now. That’s a shame.”  
Jindosh squints at her face. His eyesight definitely was getting worse with age, but he couldn’t blame it entirely. He was once so good at this! It frustrates him within seconds and he gives up, scoffing angrily at her. “Have we met before?”  
“No, good sir.” She says, a wry smile pulling at the corners of her lips. “Perhaps if I struck a pose?”  
She frowns sharply, her eyebrows angling down over her dark green eyes. She tilts her head back with an air of superiority and squares her shoulders. And at once he realized. Oh, of course that’s who she was.  
“You’re a Sokolov,” he murmurs incredulously. “And the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree. Are you a granddaughter perhaps? No, you’re out of your twenties and likely into your thirties . . .” he concentrates hard, going over the years in his mind. At last his lips part and he stares at her hauntingly, “. . . a daughter?”  
She pulls her lips to the side and gives him a frown. “I can’t believe you needed a hint. How unsatisfactory.” Then her attention returns to the fireplace. He did not see anything in her hands, yet a moment later, the fire was lit. She stands up, adjusting the glove on her right hand. “Yes, I’m his daughter. Or, I’m one of them. I can’t begin to fathom how many of that man’s bastards are hobbling about the isles. I am Amelia Sokolov. Please refer to me as Amelia.”  
“Amelia Sokolov? You took his last name?”  
She looks abruptly vexed by the question. “It is my own last name, Jindosh. My father and mother were married when I was born. I am a true heiress.”  
Jindosh blinks, the inner mechanisms of his mind getting used to turning as the minutes go by. Anton never mentioned being married. He certainly wasn’t married when Kirin knew him. And though he was not in denial of his many illegitimate children, he would have admitted to having a legitimate offspring. She must be lying or mistaken; it was too strange that Anton not only had a legitimate child but that the world didn’t know about it! That this woman hadn’t gone before Emily Kaldwin, presented the documents, and found herself a cushy apartment near the palace of Dunwall! There was no conceivable way that this supposed heir to the Sokolov name was living in an abandoned botany house in the middle of the Tyvian wastes.  
Amelia notices the look on his face and Kirin swears he saw her roll her eyes. “Never mind all that. It’s not important.”  
“It’s not?” he retorts, a harsh laughter bubbling in his chest. “I must say I disagree.”  
She simply stares at him for a moment before motioning to his supper. “You should eat before it gets cold. In the meantime, I can tell you a few things as they range in relevance. Overloading you with information has proved to be unpredictable. I’ve worked too hard to restore your neurological functions to have some outlier destroy it all.”  
He is miffed at her reluctance and would have argued with her had his stomach not growled in protest. He reaches down to pick up the spoon, going slowly, and is decently pleased with himself when he manages to hold it, if not shakily.  
She takes a seat on the sofa next to him. Slinging one long leg over the other, she places her fingers on her chin and begins to think. “Where to start? Well, I suppose I should mention my profession. I’m a natural philosopher who specializes in engineering and who also has a degree in surgical and medical practices. Sound familiar?” She smirks but it lacks merriment, “It was decidedly easier—and faster—to graduate in those fields because they were my father’s fields. Never mind all that for now. I specialize in anatomical enhancements like the device I’ve implanted on the back of your neck.”  
Kirin’s fingers flitter to the back of his neck once more and he studies the attachment through touch and feel. It would not budge, no matter how he tried to move it.  
“What it’s doing for you is not its sole purpose but simply a byproduct of what it’s meant to accomplish.” She reaches over to his untouched cup of tea and steals it from him without missing a beat. “It is providing you with a constant dose of electricity to force your brain to generate new cells and communicate at synapses. It’s just enough of a charge to allow you to regain your former state of mind—nowhere near the charge which caused the trauma. If we were to remove it, you’d be alright for a few hours before slowly losing your memory and deteriorating back to your previous traumatized state.”  
Kirin has long since stopped eating. He’s just staring at her incredulously, fingering the device with curiosity. He could hardly believe it to be true, but it was in fact working. The evidence was clear.  
“How did you discover this effect?” he asks, craning forward in his chair. He is indeed intrigued.  
“It was originally an inhibitor to protect higher brain function. But I discovered not only can it protect, it can stimulate.” She isn’t looking at him. She’s staring into the fire with a far-off look in her eyes. He had no way of knowing, but she was thinking about how many times it had failed to do any of that.  
“Protect higher brain function from what?” he asks, leaning against his arm. She makes eye contact with him and he wonders why it took him so long to realize she was her father’s daughter.  
“That’s a conversation for another day—when you’re ready to return to the lab.”  
He sits up straight, gripping the handles of the wheel chair to the best of his ability. “I beg your pardon?”  
“I said you aren’t fit to be in a work environment just yet. You’re having trouble with your motor functions because the dosage of electricity I’m applying through your brain stim is just enough to keep you cognitive right now. We can’t increase the charge all at once—it will need to be gradual or it will kill you. Until then, you’ll need to adjust slowly.”  
He scowls at her and she stares back calmly and without malice. “So . . . ? What exactly are you getting out of this? You’re going to take care of me and help rehabilitate me for . . . however long this takes? You can’t be serious. You don’t even know me; why are you doing this?”  
She stands up from her spot on the sofa and waltzes behind the wheelchair, backing it up and guiding him out of the room. “So abrasive. Not even a ‘thank you.’ If you must know, I’m going to study you as you recover. The neuro inhibitor is a key instrument in my private studies. And you were naturally the best candidate—your fame was not unbeknownst to me. What happened to you nearly robbed the isles of the greatest mind of a generation. Who else was anywhere near as worthy of a candidate?”  
He relaxes a little as she speaks. He can’t decide how to feel about this. On one hand he is eternally grateful to this stranger for restoring him to his former glory. Then again, he would have no choice to but rely on her for months, maybe years. However long it took to full recover. He was at her mercy and there really wasn’t any pleasure to derive from that.  
She pilots him into the hallway at the left of the stair case—the opposite of the one they had entered the entrance hall from. They pass by a number of rooms before reaching an elevator at the very end. “Luckily for us,” says Sokolov, “The old botany philosopher installed himself an elevator. Very convenient, hm?”  
She takes his platter and sets it on a hallway table before rolling him through the sliding doors and pressing the button for the second story. “Where are we going now?” He asks, irritated at his own helplessness, “If you’re going to be my personal chauffeur for the next several months you’re going to have to start _asking me_ before you just whisk me away.”  
She chuckles as the elevator dings and the doors come open. “We are going to your bedroom. It’s right next to mine in case you need me in the middle of the night.”  
He almost asks why he would need her, but then he realizes and a humiliating flush burns in his cheeks. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of my own bodily functions, thank you.”  
“Whatever you say,” she hums.  
The elevator opens to a passage that veers both left and right before leading to their own respective hallways, forming a ‘U’ shape from an aerial view. Amelia takes them to the left and shows Kirin to the bedroom closest to the elevator. “Here we are,” she says, reaching for the ring of keys on her waist. She searches for the right one.  
“Are you going to keep me locked away like your father used to cage civilians during the rat plague?” he taunts, only a little concerned.  
Amelia coughs out a laugh. She wriggles the key in the lock then finally manages to open the door. Warm light washes over him and he briefly delights in the comfort it provides. “Very funny, indeed. I’ll need to get used to your quips or else I might just resort to locking you away.”  
Kirin reaches down and grasps the wheels of the chair. Amelia notices and decides to stand aside, silently watching. Mustering all his concentration, he grips the wheels and focuses as much of his strength as possible into a forward motion. His fingers twitch, then release, and his arms fall limply to his side. Jindosh swears under his breath.  
“I think you should have just killed me,” he mutters as she crosses behind him again and pushes him into the room. “It would have saved at least a bit of my dignity.”  
“Nonsense,” She chastises. “This is groundbreaking progress in cerebral recovery. And you’ll be good as new within a year. You can continue your work and announce to the world that you’re alive, if you want. But every project needs to start somewhere. And we’ll start slow.”  
She helps him onto the bed and makes her way over to his wardrobe. He almost expects to see his old clothes, but she presents him with Tyvian casual wear. “I hope this fits,” she says, lying it across his lap. “I took your measurements while you were unconscious. Now. Can you get dressed on your own, or do you need my help?”  
He feels his face grow hot. With trembling hands, he takes up the clothing and ushers her out of the room. She smiles, amused, and respects his decision. “I’ll be back to get you in an hour or so. We’ll need to begin some basic studies. Feel free to ring the bell next to your bed if you need me.”  
Then she exits the room.  
Only to walk down the hall a few steps before the bell rings.


	3. The Outing Part One

3  
THE RESIDENCE OF AMELIA SOKOLOV  
27th day, Month of Wind  
He sits in the wheel chair, glaring hard at his reflection in the mirror before him. The man that stared back at him was unrecognizable—cheeks sunken in due to weight loss, hair long and curled, a beard growing steadily. The only solace was the pale green eyes that reminded him he truly was himself.   
Amelia dips a comb into a bowl of water sitting next to them on a night stand. She takes a few strands of dark brown hair, studies it for minute, then makes the cut. The repetitive ‘snip, snip’ of the scissors and sound of the tufts hitting the floor accompanies his deep thinking. Amelia says nothing, focused on what she’s doing. She picks up a fat little brush from the table and sweeps the stray hairs off of his neck and the glowing neuro inhibitor lodged there.   
She examines her work on the back and nods satisfactorily before crossing in front of him. He’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t react when her fingers reach under his chin and tilt his face up to look at her. At this angle, she begins working on his bangs—cutting then combing back. She had seen paintings of him in his prime, and tried to reproduce the style. Alas, her specialties did not include cosmetics. He looked fine, just not like he once did.   
“Alright, time for the beard. Unless you’ve grown fond of it.” She smirks, sweeping tufts of hair off of his chest with the brush. “Personally I detest it. You don’t have the features for it.”  
“Oh, thank you. I was secretly coveting your opinion.” His words sting with poison.  
She dips a smaller brush into a bowl of shaving cream. “Do you want a clean shave?”   
-  
An hour later, Amelia is chopping carrots in the kitchen with impressive speed. Kirin sits in his wheel chair, positioned by a window overlooking the forest, and stares down at the pen and paper before him.   
“Write,” she had ordered him, “Even if it’s nonsense or just your name.” Then she had gone to work making them lunch. He did nothing, of course. He stared out the window in melancholy, brooding perhaps. Stubborn, unyielding, and above all full of self-pity. This man was only a fraction of what she had expected him to be.   
All that she knew of him came from his biographies. Memoirs. Just tidbits and snippets of a person, never really the full picture. She’d travelled to Serkonos, years ago, to see the unveiling of the clockwork design—a very early prototype. There had been maybe thirty people in that crowd, perhaps less. The sun was blazing and the stage was in the middle of a town square north of the Campo Seta Dockyards. The inventor had walked onto stage wearing very modest clothing and an expression of confidence that she would never forget. He’d explained the complexities of the design, knowing full well that no one in the crowd could appreciate, let alone understand the intricacies of his masterpieces. And yet he had continued to talk about his work and his struggles and the eventual perfection. And she had been inspired.   
She looks up from the cutting board and says to him, “If you want to eat, I’ll need to see at least an attempt, Jindosh.”  
He looks at her and she knows he hates her. “You sound like a nanny. Hell, you might as well be one. Cooking and cleaning and _nagging,_. You’re hardly your father’s daughter. Well, perhaps the nagging is akin to him.”   
She bristles, visibly, but does not retaliate, slicing thin pieces of bacon.  
Kirin could never help himself from taunting people. He saw vulnerability in her and he pounced on it. This was the only thing he had control of; this was the only thing that made him feel like himself.   
So he continues, “I never asked you do any of this for me. I don’t know you, I don’t particularly care for you, and I certainly don’t plan on being grateful to you. The minute I’m able, I’ll sail back to Karnaca and you can continue living comfortably in your father’s shadow.”  
“Careful, Jindosh,” She warns without looking at him, setting the bacon into a hot skillet. The sizzling sound did nothing to calm the tension in the room.   
“Did I strike a nerve? Don’t tell me daddy dearest didn’t play a part in your success. Does he visit often? I bet he’s the one who _really_ came up with the concept for the neuro inhibitor—just to mock me further. He can’t be long for this world—don’t you worry, you can take the credit when this is all over—,”   
She laughs. Softly, at first, then in boisterous bursts. He blinks at her, silenced and a little displeased at the reaction. Amelia, still chuckling, takes up a rag and wipes the pork residue from the blade of the knife.   
“I don’t think you understand the position you’re in.” She says calmly, taking a step around the counter. He pales a bit, noticing how she’s moving toward him with the knife at her side. “I’ve been very patient, Mr. Jindosh. I’ve been hoping that the despondence and disgusting pity you have for yourself was simply a side effect of the inhibitor.” She places the dull side of the blade against his shallow cheek and he freezes, making unbreakable eye contact with her. “You can imagine my disappointment. I’ve bathed you, fed you, dressed you. And I’ve been very gracious, as a host. And here you sit, wallowing, ungrateful, and undeserving. I am not Alexandria Hypatia, good sir. This is not a rehabilitation institute, regardless of the lies I fed her. I am certainly not your nanny.” She flips the blade, and presses the sharp, un-sanitized edge to his skin. A cut from it would leave a ghastly infection. “I would like for you to stay here and serve as a test subject for the inhibitor while I work on bigger projects. But if you continue to act like a thorn in my back then I will deliver you to the cold wastes. Are we clear?”  
His jaw clenched, his body stiff, he can only close his eyes in defeat. She removes the blade from his face and he lets out a deep breath.   
“Good,” She says, gazing down upon him. She taps the tip of the knife onto the parchment paper in front of him. “Now write your damned name.”  
He picks up the pen, silently, and begins making the equivalent of chicken-scratch on the paper. Amelia watches him for a moment, calming herself down. _That was a little too close,_ , she thinks to herself, _I very nearly lost my composure_.  
Satisfied with his work ethic, she returns to their meal, adjusting the heat on the stove. As an afterthought, she says, “And if you compare me to my river crust of a father one more time, you’ll lose another of your precious remaining fingers.”  
\--  
15th day, Month Of Darkness  
“What I don’t understand is why you can’t leave me here and go into town by yourself.”  
She pins up the shining silver buttons on her long, dark green trench coat. It’s thick and heavy, perfectly suitable for the climate. Turning to Jindosh, she ‘tsks’ when she sees he has refused to put on the coat and hat she has provided for him.   
“Because you could fall and hurt yourself and I wouldn’t be home to help you. Now come on and get dressed. A carriage will be outside waiting for us.” Some days she feels like his mother. He had gotten better with his snarky remarks but he still adored to pout and be stubborn. Much like a child.   
He’s seated in his wheel chair, one thin leg thrown over the other. Practically reclining, he ignores the clothing draped across his lap and says, “I can handle myself perfectly well, thank you. I promise I won’t throw myself down the stairs while you’re away.”  
“For some reason or another, I find it’s hard to trust you,” she ponders mockingly, shooting him a sly glare.   
“The feeling is mutual, I assure you.” He holds up the coat and eyes it over. He was a Serkonan through and through—he belonged on a warm and hazy balcony not traversing the ice lands.   
“The trip will last for quite a while, Jindosh. I’ve got to pick up a parcel at the post office and gather supplies from my private vendors. Not to mention we need to pick up food and a few other necessities. You can’t be alone that long.” And it would do him some good to get out of this house and experience something a little livelier.   
“And if someone recognizes me?” He asks, begrudgingly slipping the coat on over his shoulders and tugging the fur cap over his ears. She raises a finger as if to say “one moment” and retreats into his wardrobe near the bathroom. With a flourish, she produces a thick wool scarf with the most atrocious of patterns on it and snakes it around his neck in coils. The only thing visible now were his beady little angry eyes poking up just over the edge.   
“This is ridiculous,” he muffles.   
Amelia wheels him down the hall and into the elevator where she fiddles with her key ring. Once they reach the mahogany doors, she offers him her arm, gesturing for him to stand up. “We’ll take the chair, of course. But the snow is too high for me to roll you out there. I’ll help you walk.”  
He is suddenly grateful for the hilariously positioned scarf as it shields his anxiety from her. He had stood up a few times since waking up in the laboratory. Each time, he had relied on a wall or bed post to keep him upright and it had never been for long—usually he’d done it while waiting for Amelia to draw his bath or against a bedpost while she heated his sheets. But he had yet to actually move his legs again.   
Despite the makeshift mask, she seemed to sense his trepidations and smiled softly at him. “Come now, dear. Do you think I’d let you fall?”  
He musters up the strength to glare at her. “I’m unsure.”  
“I won’t.” She shakes her extended hand once as if to encourage him. “I’m stronger than I look.”  
Seeing no other alternative, he relents and places his hand into hers much like a countess accepting a dance from a beau. Amelia easily pulls him forward, her other hand going to his back to support him. Once his feet hit the ground and there is pressure on his knees, he panics and falls against her, clinging desperately. But Amelia remains collected, simply winding her solid arm around his waist and using her other hand to drape his arm around her shoulder.   
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She chuckles, waiting for him to adjust.   
He cannot even supply her with a witty remark. Kirin holds his breath and marvels at how weak his legs have gotten with atrophy. That part of his recovery process would take much longer than the others, he feared.   
“We’re going to walk now, alright? Hold onto me while I get the door.”   
Jindosh tries to argue but she’s already stepping forward, dragging him along. His feet stumble and despite his best attempts, he cannot stop the yelp that escapes between clenched teeth.   
It is at this time that the carriage driver, waiting at the end of the driveway, starts to get irritated with how long his riders are taking. He snubs out his cigar on the white snow, rubbing it in with his knee-high leather boots, and begins to trek toward the door. The front part of the house is elaborately decorated with metal fencing and he uses it to help keep him steady. He knocks on the door with one gloved hand, prepared to leave if he doesn’t get an answer. To his surprise, he hears the young woman of the house say, “Get the door will you?”  
He is perplexed at first and wonders if she is speaking to him. “Ma’am?” he asks.   
“I said get the door!”  
Convinced, he takes hold of both handles and pulls them apart, struggling against the built up snow at the base.   
Amelia steps out onto the driveway, Jindosh sitting bridal-style in her arms, and says to the carriage driver, “Get that wheel chair and load it up, please. And do be careful with it. I don’t plan on carrying this fine gentleman all day.”  
The carriage driver is rather shocked but eventually steps into the threshold and picks up the wheelchair.   
Kirin, on the other hand, cannot quite recover as easily. He is holding onto her for dear life, both arms around her neck and shoulders. And his whole body is tensed up—not as much from fear but from embarrassment. His face, surely, is the finest shade of red for miles and miles.   
“You. Will put me down. This. Instant.” He hisses at her. She ignores him and walks toward the carriage with relative ease. Dismayed at how easily she snubbed his complaint, he tries again with, “You’re going to slip and fall and I’m going to snap in half!”   
To this she laughs, unable to control herself. Both her boots are equipped with traction spikes. She’s perfectly fine out here. But instead she pretends to wobble back in forth, earning a delightfully tight squeeze around her neck and a face buried into her shoulder.   
“You’re not funny. And I’m going to kill you in your sleep.”  
She helps him into the carriage and he makes sure he is safe and well balanced before reaching toward her and pulling her cap down over her eyes while she’s still clambering into the carriage herself. The action catches her off-guard and she jolts, hitting her head on the roof with a very satisfying “thump.”  
“Ah,” she hisses, removing the hat altogether to rub absently at the new bump. “I suppose I deserved that.”  
The carriage ride into Dabokva is pleasantly quiet. Amelia’s home was about 20 minutes away and the journey to and from the city went through the forest. It was a dangerous journey, especially at night. The carriage driver kept a pistol with him up front and constantly scanned the horizon for wolves and bears. The sun was nowhere to be seen—the month of darkness was upon them. And though it was around 9 in the morning, it looked like it could be midnight.   
The carriage driver was perfectly experienced with traversing the Tyvian landscape; they were equipped for if danger decided to strike. Kirin stares out the window, studying the depths of the trees and how shadows seemed to move just beyond them. Tyvia truly was a gateway to the void.   
On the horizon, they could see smoke bellowing beyond the trees. As the carriage drew closer and closer, Kirin leaned against the glass and could spot tall stone walls that circled the city. Lights from inside lit up the hazy sky and the trio could tell it was starting to snow.   
When they reached the entrance, two Tyvian guardsmen stopped the carriage and began to open the tremendous wooden gate that led into the city. “It keeps out the wildlife,” explains Amelia, “And it keeps people from easily escaping.”  
The carriage driver pulls over to let them off and helps retrieve the wheel chair from the back. Kirin feels sick all of a sudden—this would be the first time anyone had ever seen him in it. At least he had his face covered.   
“I’ll be here when you’re ready,” says the carriage driver.   
She hands over a few silver pieces to him and goes to help Kirin out of the carriage.   
The streets in Dabokva are paved or lined with cobblestones. Amelia pushes him down the sidewalk toward the postal office which is located in the center of Mastrov Square. “We can hit our stops on the way,” she explains, “And I’ll need you to hold our things as we go.”  
“Was it not enough for you to drag me out of the house? Now I have to participate?”  
“I’m so cruel to you, I know.”  
Jindosh had been to Dabokva once before. It was on a mountain side; the Citidel was at the highest point, nestled between onyx rock. When he had visited, he’d entered through one of the northern gates and had stayed in one of the estates up town. Here, at the bottom of the hill, it resembled a village.   
“Why don’t you live in one of the finer homes uptown?” he asks her, trying to avoid speaking when civilians walk past. “Or even here, if you prefer squalor.”  
She is silent for a moment, watching as a mother ushers her train of children from one side of the road to another, avoiding carriages that bustle past. “I like my solitude.”  
Lamp posts are stationed every fifteen feet or so and bathe the streets in a deep yellow glow. People are everywhere, entering shops and bargaining on street corners. And though the majority of them are lower class and Amelia is dressed finely, they greet her with the tip of their caps or a polite wave. He thinks this is odd. Dabokva was not known for its progressive classism.   
It is at this moment that Kirin’s eye catches a small child who darts around a corner with is play mates, and for a moment—just a split moment—he thinks he saw the child’s leg glint in the light. But Amelia ushers him into one of the shops and the image is lost.   
“Did you see—?” he begins to ask. He is stopped when he is affronted by a delectable smell.  
Apple pudding. His favorite.   
He hadn’t eaten breakfast that morning. Amelia had made the mistake of mentioning their excursion into town as she had served it to him. And he had refused it in protest. His hubris.   
They were in a sort of grocery store. Wooden shelves were filled with canned goods and products while barrels of fresh fruit and vegetables lined the outer walls. To the immediate left there was a counter where a man was thinly slicing pieces of pork and cheese. The counter was divided in half by a glass barrier and on the other side, a man was setting out freshly baked goods—and it was from there that the smell was originating.   
Amelia took up a basket by the door and began to wheel them around the room, sometimes asking Jindosh his opinion on what he would like to eat. He would nod or shake his head instead of speaking. His clockworks—and therefore his voice—had been all over the isles.   
They start toward the counter and Kirin eyes the apple pudding, hopeful. Unfortunatley, Amelia wheels them right past the bakery and toward the deli. “Two pounds of shredded pork and one pound of Morely cheese, thank you.”   
He sits quietly in his wheelchair bundled up to his eyes—appearing as an old, old man to those around him. His stomach rumbles despite how he fights against it and he swears under the protection of the scarf.   
Dark black hair shrouds him like a curtain as Amelia leans over the wheelchair. “Hungry? Oh, for shame. If only someone had eaten his dinner.”  
“Go easy on him, miss,” said the butcher in his thick Tyvian accent. “Old folks eat when they want to eat. They’re just a bit picky.”  
She laughs and the entire store seems to stop to listen. Even Jindosh thinks it sounds as lovely as wind chimes; he is so entranced he has forgotten the butcher’s comment on the elderly.   
“What are you hungry for, then? You’ve been very quiet.” She rests her elbows on the handlebars and peers down at him with her clear green eyes. His mouth thins into a grimace and he looks away, refusing to say anything. Sokolov watches him, bemused, then says to the baker, “I’ll also take one apple pudding, thank you.”  
As she escorts him back onto the sidewalk, she says, “Don’t think I didn’t notice you drooling.”  
He is at once startled. “I beg your pardon?” Surely she hadn’t thought that the way he stared at her when she laughed meant—  
“Your eyes were practically glued to that counter the entire time we were there. I’ll never ask you this again, but feel free to speak up. No one is going to recognize you just by your voice; almost everyone believes you’re dead.”  
Almost everyone?  
The next place they stop is a blacksmith. She is greeted at the door by the smithy himself who, much to Kirin’s surprise, seems very pleased to see her. He is a very robust man covered from head to toe with soot and sweat. His overalls are tattered and his shoes have a hole near the heel. And still he is smiling like he is the luckiest man in the isles.  
“Amelia! Come in, come in!” He holds the door wide open so that Sokolov can maneuver through. “Ivanna, bring me Sokolov’s commission!”   
From the back room, a young woman pushes the curtain aside and steps forward holding a wrapped package. She looks as equally worn down as her husband and perhaps even livelier. “Good morning, M’lady.”  
She hands Amelia the package and the former examines it carefully. “You’ll find it’s to your exact specifications. We made special molds just for you, so you’re guaranteed consistency.”  
Finding this satisfactory, Amelia shrugs off the satchel she’d been carrying and shoves the package into it. “I’m sure you did, Vas. You’ve yet to disappoint me.” Amelia reaches into her coat pocket and retrieves her coin purse, pulling out two rolls of gold coin. Vas takes one and politely refuses the other.   
“This is enough,” he says, looking tenderly at his wife. “You’ve already done so much for us.”  
Jindosh finds this to be curious indeed. Amelia nods to them, sneaking a glance at Kirin—nosy, nosy man—before saying, “Where’s Damien? I was hoping to see him and check in.”  
“He is spending the winter with his aunt in Gristol,” says Ivanna, looking worried with motherly concern. “But he is doing wonderful now, thanks to you.”  
Taking hold of the wheelchair, Amelia spins Kirin around toward the door and calls over her shoulder, “Well, it was nice catching up with you both! Send word to me when the next order is ready!”  
Then they are back on the street.   
“What was that all about?” he asks, mischief in his voice. “Are you a martyr around here, perhaps? You said you studied in the medical field—did you go around curing little children from illnesses to get favors out of their parents? Hm?”  
She turns the wheelchair sharply to the left so that she can run over a stray rock. The bump nearly throws him and their groceries out of the seat. “Touchy, touchy aren’t we?” he grumbles.   
The two of them stop at a few more places. Most of them were for more household supplies or tools. She stopped them at a wood worker’s shop to special order a cane for Jindosh—for when he started to walk again. “Can’t use me as a walking stick forever,” she had said.   
At last they arrived at Mastrov square. A giant statue of the High Judges—the original Judges who declared Tyvia’s independence—loomed over the crowd. It depicted them holding the Tyvian flag, help up by the citizens. But it could also be interpreted as though they were stepping upon the people. Guardsmen were everywhere in this part of town. They stood at attention or beat the daylights out of people who had ‘disrupted the peace.’ Amelia kept moving at a brisk pace, weaving through the crowd to get to the post office.   
The line inside was long and it looked downright crowded. “Stay out here, will you?” she asks him, shrugging her satchel off. “I’ll just be a minute. I’ve been told it’s ready for pick up. Stay out of trouble, alright?” And then she disappeared inside.   
He sat there, shivering in the cold, clutching the groceries to his chest. The apple pudding smelled heavenly and he wondered if he could sneak a bit or two before she came back. It would certainly warm him up. As he is thinking it over, two guardsmen approach him without his realizing it. By the time he notices, they are already confronting him.   
“There is no loitering on Mastrov Square,” says one of them in Tyvian. Kirin knew a bit of the language; all the languages of the isles bled together, really. “I’m going to have to ask you to keep moving, sir.”  
In common tongue, Kirin says, “Oh, fuck off will you? You and I both know you saw that I was left here by a young woman who went into the post office. She’ll be back any minute and we’ll be on our way.”  
“What did he say?” asked the first guard to the second. The second shrugged. “Sir, if you aren’t willing to cooperate we have the authority to arrest you for disobeying the law of the High Judges.”   
Kirin has to translate the sentence two times—once from Tyvian to Common, then again from Common to Serkonan. By this time, the Guards are already reaching for the handles of the chair, yanking it from the wall and causing Kirin to nearly drop his precious apple pudding.   
“Excuse me,” says the calm voice of his companion, in Tyvian, as she exists to post office, “What do you think you’re doing to my father?”  
The guards stand at attention, indeed alarmed. They look between Amelia and one another, stammering their response, “High Architect! We didn’t recognize you—did you say your father?”  
Their faces paled as they looked down at the man in the wheel chair, covered up to his eyes in warm clothing. “Royal Physician—Anton Sokolov, sir! We had no idea it was you. Please, forgive us for our behavior and allow us to escort you to your next location.”  
Kirin goes to say something but Amelia places a heavy right hand on his shoulder. “There is no need for that, gentleman. It was a simple misunderstanding. Now, scurry off before I have a change of heart.”  
The look in her eyes is murderous yet it is cloaked by the serene nature of her face. It was enough to send a shiver down anyone’s spine, even a native Tyvian. The guards salute the pair of philosophers and retreat back to their post.   
“Well, that was exciting,” said Amelia, watching them go.   
“Did they call you the High Architect?” asks Kirin, only just now finishing the translation in his head. “Did you call me Anton Sokolov?”  
“I implied it,” she states, tactfully avoiding the first question. “Alright, that was our last stop. Let’s get back to the carriage shall we?”  
\--  
That was easier said than done. For when they arrived back where they had left their carriage, the driver and his means of travel were gone. In fact, all the carriages and horses were gone.   
“What is the meaning of this?” Amelia demands, grabbing hold of one of the stable boys.   
“Snow storm is coming ma’am. All travel is prohibited for everyone’s safety—yours and your driver’s.”  
She scoffs, exasperated. “But I only live a few minutes away! I could walk that far.”   
“Wouldn’t recommend it,” said the stable boy, a joking grin on his face. It slid away when he saw the look she returned to him. “You’re welcome to stay at one of the inns in town. Storm should pass over by tomorrow morning. You’ll need to get here early if you want to catch a ride—I imagine they’ll be in high demand by that time.”  
Then he went back to work. Jindosh taps his gloved fingers against the handle of his chair, raising a brow at Amelia. She avoids his gaze for as long as possible before finally turning to him, annoyed.   
“What? How could I possibly have foreseen this?”  
“Haven’t you lived here your whole life?” He asks, dryly.   
“Not my entire life, no. And even if I had, it’s impossible to predict snow storms like these. So get that look off of your face. We need to find a pace to stay.”  
His jaw drops and he exclaims, “Are you serious?”  
“What other options do we have?” She notes the snow falling in heavier chunks, already building up by the wheels of his wheelchair. She has to give it a good shove with her boot to get it moving again.  
“Can we at least travel to the better parts of town?” Jindosh turns his nose up at the children already rolling around in the muddy snow.   
“You heard the boy. We need to be able to get back here early tomorrow morning. It’s fine. There’s an inn nearby that owes me a favor.”  
The ‘inn’ in question was more like a house that rented off the spare room. It was owned by a little old lady who was, at full height, as tall as Kirin sitting in his chair. She was wearing all sorts of traditional Tyvian winter wear—a colorful bonnet embroidered with flowers and a heavy wool shawl of the same color and design. She did not speak, but she used sign language and embraced Amelia as the young woman entered the room.   
“This is Lida. She says she has a spare room available,” says Amelia, relaying the old woman’s words to her companion. “We can stay here for the night then head back early tomorrow morning.”  
Kirin grumbles his disdain as Lida begins to hobble toward the spare bedroom door with a key in her ancient hand. “You’re awfully popular.”  
“It has its advantages. Really, you should be thanking me—,”  
Lida unlocks the door and pushes it open, stepping aside so that the two of them could peer in. She clasps her hands together and chuckles before shuffling back to the main room.   
Inside, the room was lined with wooden walls and a ready-made fire place. It smelled a bit like dust but mostly like the meals Lida had made that day. A round, hand woven rug lied on the floor—adding most of the color to the room.  
And, perhaps most importantly, there was one bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You already know I'm a slut for romantic cliches.


	4. The Outing Part Two

15th Day, Month of Darkness  
THE RESIDENCE OF LIDA  
The snow picked up traction around one o’clock in the evening, huge flakes landing on the cobblestones just outside the small cabin. Amelia stood by the window and observed the weather, wondering if they would even be able to leave the next morning with how heavy the snow was coming down. She curses their luck; she had wanted to get Jindosh out of the house for a _day_ and now they would be trapped indoors together—in a much, much smaller space. 

Lida had made tea and stew and was sitting in her cushy rocking chair, sipping out of a spoon. Jindosh had moved from his usual wooden wheel chair to a much more comfortable—albeit dusty—couch by the fire. What he wouldn’t give for a cigar right now, or even a glass of brandy. 

“You should eat something,” Amelia mutters, still peering out at the street. “You didn’t eat this morning, you’re surely hungry.”

Jindosh clenches his jaw and pretends not to hear her. He was getting tired of being told why and when to do things. He was at least ten years her senior. 

“I’m fine, thank you.” He manages to keep his composure. If they were to be trapped together for the foreseeable future, he would need to pace his outbursts. The smell of the stew was tempting, though. If she hadn’t said anything, he might have never noticed it. Now his stomach aches with hunger. 

“Well, you can’t just eat apple pudding,” she chastises without adverting her gaze. “You need to build your strength.”

He clinches his fists and calms himself down, pretending he’s sitting in his smoking room in his mansion. Soon, he thinks, someday soon he’ll be back there. 

The hours passed so slowly in Tyvia. The darkness made it hard to gauge how many seconds ticked by; people who claimed to have visited the void often compared the dark and timeless atmosphere to Tyvia’s eternal night. And now Kirin understood why. How could anyone live like this? 

He looks at Amelia’s back—a slender yet sturdy frame—and regards her for a moment. He still knew virtually nothing about her. Though his ability to read people at a glance was well-honed, he could not pinpoint exactly what motivated her. She was the daughter of Anton Sokolov—the great Anton Sokolov!— and she detested the mention of his name. In fact, he was rumored to be here in Dabokva this very instant. And yet she had not sought him out for shelter during the storm. So Kirin could conclude that their relationship was poor, at best. But why, that was the question. She claimed to be a great natural philosopher and the evidence was beginning to sprout before his very eyes—the inhibitor was a marvel of technology yet she hardly bragged about it at all. 

So was it a competitive nature that drove a spike between the two of them? Was she envious of her father’s infamy? Or was it because of a lack of recognition from Anton? Kirin could relate to that. Did he deny her legitimacy as his child? She claimed Anton had been married to her mother and that she had been born a ‘Sokolov’ from the start. If that were true, then Anton certainly did a good job of hiding it from the general public. Kirin, who had probably still been studying under him when Amelia was a child, had never noticed any indication that the Royal Physician had a wife. So perhaps she was spiteful because he never acknowledged her existence? 

Deep down he knew it was all of these things. He could see it in her eyes and the way that she presented herself. She had been _wronged_ —horribly so. But, alas, he could feel that there was something else. Something more meaningful that influenced her hatred. And she kept it very well hidden. 

\--

True night had begun to creep up on them. Kirin had taken to scribbling ugly notes in a small pocket-sized journal Amelia had bought him in one of the shops. His handwriting was still fairly horrendous but at least he had a place to collect his thoughts. Besides, Lida wasn’t really one for conversation. 

Amelia had long since left the hut. She’d put on her coat and boots, signed something to Lida, and had stepped outside to go . . . somewhere. She didn’t say. She was allowed to do that; come and go as she pleased whereas he was constantly monitored. Sure, he was allowed to roam the greenhouse freely. But that was a short leash. She knew where he was at all times. 

And right now, for all he knew, she was frozen somewhere on the streets. He hadn’t asked her where she was going; he didn’t really care. 

Lida had gone to bed by the time Amelia finally stepped back into the inn. Her cheeks were a rosy red—such a vibrant contrast to her normally colorless skin. Snow had been hardened into heavy chunks around the bottom of her coat and her boots. She began to shrug the layers off. 

“The weather isn’t letting up. I found our driver at a tavern near the square. I asked him if he’d be able to reserve us a ride back tomorrow.” She brings the coat over near the fire, draping it across a quilt wrack. “He said he could, but for a generous fee. The road back isn’t going to be in the best conditions, and as I suspected most of the drivers had agreed to suspend travel for at least three days. But we aren’t too far away; we should be fine.”

Kirin narrows his eyes. “You traversed a snowstorm just for that?”

“Oh, forgive me,” she removes her boots and places them near the hearth. “Did you want to sleep with me for a few days? Were you looking forward to it? I should have asked.”

Despite the clear sour tone in her voice, Kirin continues to prod. “What exactly is the difference between being trapped together in _this_ house and being trapped together in _your_ house?”

Amelia, looking exhausted and cold, retorts, “The difference, my dear Grand Inventor, is that there are two different beds in two separate rooms in a much larger house.”

At this point in the day, after sitting in silence for hours, feeling his mind rot in his skull, Kirin is desperate for some sort of entertainment. He sees that she is both tired and frustrated, perhaps even a little defenseless, and he simply cannot stop himself from sinking his teeth in. 

“Is sharing a bed with me really the worst thing imaginable?” there’s an insolent smirk on his lips and a twinkle in his pale eyes. “True, I cannot perform as elegantly as I used to be able to, but you’ll find the view from above me just as delightful as you might from beneath me.”

Amelia sighs—or, more accurately, groans—as she approaches the stove to fix herself a bowl of stew. Had he not expected this sort of exasperated response, he might have gotten his feelings bruised. But Amelia was not the type to blush and fall prey to seductive teasing. In fact, quite the opposite. 

“I don’t believe you could handle me properly. In bed, that is.” Her face is blank for a moment, then the façade cracks and she smirks. “How long has it been?”

Kirin’s heart skips. “I beg your pardon?” Blood heats his cheeks. 

“Since you’ve eaten.” A bowl of stew appears over his shoulder. She’s giving him an amused look.

“Ah.”

He shakes the accumulated thoughts out of his mind and takes the bowl. He’d have to be more careful when joking about such topics. It _had_ been a long time since he’d last . . . well. It would suffice to say that he was more than a little hot-blooded right about now. 

They sit in a comfortable silence and eat. Kirin had fallen into his old routine of needlessly skipping meals and was now hastily scarfing down his food. Tyvia was a culinary country; they prided themselves on their various spices and garnishes. And it was true that even compared to Karnaca’s assortment of quality seasonings and flavors, Tyvia stood unparalleled. 

“I have a gift for you.”

He peers at her over the rim of the bowl. She’s staring into the dwindling fire with her face resting on the back of her hand. When she’s in deep thought like this, she really does resemble him. 

When Jindosh says nothing, Amelia glances up at him through her heavy eyelashes and grins half-heartedly. “I was going to wait until we got home. But I’m not accustomed to gift giving so I haven’t built up any patience for it. If you’d like we can wait—,”

He sets the bowl down. He cannot help but be wary and could count the gifts he’s received throughout his forty five years on one hand. “Let’s see it, then.” 

Amelia does not move at first. She is busy trying to decide if this is appropriate or not. Were they close enough yet? Would they ever be close enough for him to understand the nature of her intentions? There would need to be a trial test before further theories were made. 

And so. 

She stands from the old sofa and offers him her hand. “It’s in the bedroom.”

Kirin raises a single dark eyebrow at her. “I was bluffing you know, I really don’t have it in me just yet. You’d be doing more than all the work.”

Just as they had done earlier that morning, Amelia helps him up to his feet and Kirin puts his weight against her to balance himself. They’re much more coordinated this time around, yet the initial first step still takes a decent amount of patience and caution. Her arm around his waist does not tremble or falter; the palm of her hand presses against his ribs with enough pressure to encourage him to begin walking. 

“This will be much easier with the cane,” she murmurs, “But we’ll need to build up your leg muscles before then. We’ll practice when we get back home.”

“I’m getting worried that my ‘present’ is just the sense of accomplishment I’ll feel from having walked to the bedroom.” His voice is strained. He’s putting all of his energy into moving his legs properly. 

“No, the gift is tangible,” Amelia chuckles. He can feel the tremor of her chest against his. “It’s what I picked up at the post office today.”

After a short rest in the doorway, they make it to the bedroom. She helps him sit down on the bed before reaching for the nightstand where her satchel bag sits. The bedsheets are scratchy but feel distinctly handmade. He’s fiddling with a stray thread in the embroidery when she finds what she’s looking for and turns to present it to him. 

It’s a small package wrapped in brown paper and littered in Serkonan stamps. It looks like it was handled with care despite, evidently, having traveled halfway across the isles. The way she’s holding it, too, insinuates its fragility or perhaps its importance. She takes a seat next to him on the bed with the package still balanced in her stead hands. Her eyes haven’t left it. 

“Before you woke up—that is, before you regained complete consciousness in my examination room—you had been in this bizarre state of limbo.” She gently shifts the package to one hand, “I was testing the inhibitor. You were the first and only test subject with such severe and unique neuro damage. I didn’t know what to expect. It seemed to be working right away when I installed it at Addermire. Then as time passed, you didn’t change. And I was starting to . . . worry. What if I had made it worse? You were practically unconscious for a little more than a month. I was considering my options—there were only two—when you finally showed signs of recovery. You began talking in your sleep and the words, though vague and unfocused, were enough for me. So,” Amelia takes a deep breath to conclude the extensive explanation. She pauses, still looking at the package, then her shoulders relax and she smiles. “I ordered this that very afternoon. It took a while to find and even longer to outbid some noble pricks. Everything becomes more valuable after death, you know.”

She offers it to him at last and he mirrors her careful handling. It is surprisingly light weight. The paper is secured by two pieces of twine bound at the top in a knot. He tugs them apart and the paper seems to fall away without the restraints. Underneath all the dressing is a plane wooden box with a sliding lid. He goes for it immediately before hesitating. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks. She’s nearly on the edge of the bed with anticipation. 

Kirin is quiet. He can’t come right out and say what he’s feeling—that opening this box crosses a line between the two of them. That accepting a gift from her is akin to acknowledging that they were getting closer to one another and, consequentially, fonder. Then he realizes that in this situation, she’s the vulnerable one. She’s the one who has stepped over the line first with her hand out to him, asking him to follow her. It’s the first time since he’s known her that their roles have appeared inverted. He opens it and peers inside. 

As he stares down at his own invention—the prosthetic pipe appendage he’d crafted from porcelain in the comfort of his cliff-side mansion—he comes to a conclusion on where he stands with her. There was still so much to learn, apparently. 

“The clockwork soldiers were truly your finest accomplishment,” he hears her say, “But this particular creation was a great inspiration for me. I’m sure when you crafted it you didn’t think twice about the ingenuity. It was so simple; child’s play in comparison to the clockworks. Even so.”

He picks it up—so familiar, the only familiar thing in weeks—and instinctively lifts his right hand, aligning it and pressing it down on the amputated fingers until he feels it click and lock into place. They are both quiet as he wiggles each finger, from pinky to thumb, getting used to the weight and movement. 

Is he supposed to say thank you? It doesn’t feel like that’s what she wants. Then what _does_ she what? 

She’s so silent. He can hardly hear her breathing next to him. Then, at last, she says, “I’ve read all your autobiographies. I’ve also read Joplin’s, Roseburrow’s, Giovani’s, Hypatia’s . . . Sokolov’s. It’s so strange to think that the greatest minds in history were born so close to one another and that each surpassed the last in their specific field.”  
Here, he watches as her face hardens. It was a subtle change but he can see she’s no longer in the room with him. She continues, dissonantly, “It’s an illusion though, isn’t it? Instead of moving forward they’re all just climbing the same ladder, going in the same direction, not moving on the X and Y axis. They all thought they were accomplishing something new but they were simply echoing the success of their forerunners. And for the longest time, I thought I had finally broken the mold. I thought my work was innovative and inimitable.” Here her face softens and she laughs to herself. He only stares, captivated. “Then I read your autobiography where you discussed the factory accident which took your fingers and how you crafted an appendage out of spare parts. Flippantly. Unwittingly. It meant nothing to you; none of your other memoirs even mentioned it after that. But I framed the one that did. It’s a reminder for me that simply coming up with an idea is never an accomplishment in and of itself. You must improve upon and perfect your own version of it until it reaches perfection—until no one else can rival it. Then and only then is it truly _your_ accomplishment.” 

“Your father doesn’t share that ideology,” Jindosh adds, having turned to completely face her. He’s even leaning forward, perplexed, as he speaks, “He thought that if a device worked, it was complete. He never upgraded his designs or even acknowledged their flaws. It was maddening.” Kirin realizes that she stiffens at the mention of Anton, but he’s practically seething with excitement cannot be bothered. “It’s a relief to hear that you share principles more akin to my own. But I am admittedly confused as to how your inhibitor research is at all derivative of my prosthetic.” 

He said this in a reassuring sort of way that tasted strange when it came off his tongue. He was so accustomed to spitting venom at her. At that moment he felt an odd twinge of guilt. 

Amelia seems to retreat into herself, to Kirin’s dismay. She shakes her head and presses her lips together into a thin line. “There’s a time and a place to continue this discussion. I got carried away, that’s all. When we get back to the house I’ll tell you more.” 

His brow furrows. “Why the precaution? It’s not as though I’m a threat to you.”

“No, no, of course not.” Amelia pinches the brim of her nose. After a pause, she begins to collect the empty box and bits of packaging paper. “It’s only that . . . well, I had a whole presentation prepared. And I was going to wait until you were more able-bodied but I’m not sure how long that will ultimately take and honestly I’m getting impatient—not with you! But you see, I’ve never really had the chance to converse with another natural philosopher so I suppose I’ve got this idea in my mind that it must be perfect.”

She stops moving and stares at him in an annoyed sort of way, struggling to articulate herself. Eventually she rolls her eyes at herself. “Damn it all. Do you see what I’m trying to say?” She crumples the paper in one depth squeeze of her hand and shoves it in the box. 

Deciding to throw her a bone, Kirin leans back on his elbows and smirks at her—and though his expression was anything but comforting, she seemed to fall into ease. “So was this a peace treaty? Are we officially partners? Are you done mothering me?”

“If you can last the night without smothering me with a pillow, then yes.”

Lasting the night proved to be difficult, indeed. Not long after their talk, Amelia unpacked their clothing—throwing Kirin’s undergarments halfway across the room—and had briefly stepped into the other room to change into her night gown. Meanwhile, Jindosh shimmied into his own nightwear with a fair amount of effort; getting dressed and bathing himself had been his first and top priority during his recovery process. Those processes were always . . . uncomfortable. For both parties. 

Outside the door, she had waited until he announced himself to be decent. When she entered the room, she hesitated briefly in the door, as if contemplating the prospects of sleeping on the small and dusty living room couch. It was far too small for her stature of five feet and seven inches and would certainly destroy her spine; someone would have to carry Jindosh back into the greenhouse and she doubted he’d appreciate it being the carriage driver. 

Meanwhile Jindosh was snuggled under the blankets, lying in the fetal position and facing away from her. He had no interest in seeing what she looked like without her typical turtle-neck sweater and long gloves. There was no physical attraction to her on his part. Curiosity, maybe. Perhaps even a smidgen of admiration. His last handful of partners had all been male—Stilton once, the Duke a couple of times, regrettably, and a number of servants chosen at random. The craving was there, though, and it was drawn to both and all of the sexes. He’d thought about Breanna more than a natural amount. At one point in time he’d even thought of Emily Kaldwin fondly—though that contemplation had been quickly dashed. Amelia was conventionally attractive, that much was true. Anton in his youth had been quite the whore; many men and women found him to be rather dashing. Jindosh included. And she undeniably favored him with her hooked nose, her sharp cheekbones, her long black hair, and her hateful eyes. Either way, he was not at all curious to see her—  
She’s in front of him all of a sudden. She’s on his side of the bed, reaching to blow out the candle. With the light, he can see that the nightgown is rather thin and sheer; when she moves, he can see the curve of her thighs and breasts silhouetted beneath the smooth dress. He’s still staring when he hears the soft whisper of breath that extinguishes the flame, then they are in darkness. 

Embarrassed by how his body is reacting against his will, Jindosh moves to lie on his stomach—uncomfortable but safer. A weight causes the bed to tilt and soon her body heat is mingling with his own. Sharing the same blanket, even! This would have been a scandal in Karnaca. But here, in this little cottage of an inn, it seems incredibly private. 

He is grateful for the howling wind as it keeps the room from being completely silent. Still, though, he can hear the quiet in-and-out of her breathing. His eyes adjust to the darkness of the room all too quickly and soon he’s staring at her. Amelia’s eyes are closed—thank the outsider—but her face is too still for her to be asleep yet. 

“Amelia,” he says, barely above a whisper. 

“Kirin,” she answers, not opening her eyes. 

“Are you ever going to talk to me about Anton?”

When she opens her eyes, the light from the window seems to cause the green in them to glow. He holds his breath; he’s not sure why. 

“Yes, if you want. But I’ll only allow you one question per progression. If you can learn how to walk with the cane, then I’ll talk.” 

He chuckles at her, bemused. As annoying as her ambiguity was at times, it did serve as an entertaining challenge. And, more importantly, he had a feeling that her and her father’s history together had layers to unwrap. It would need a delicate hand and would give him something to do before he could step foot into a laboratory again. 

They settled back into silence. Many of Kirin’s nights were spent staring at the ceiling while his brain refused to shut down. But tonight felt different. He glanced over at her one more time and saw that she had fallen to sleep. And at the sight, he felt his own eyes close, and he slipped away.


	5. The Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: animal death, gore

28th Day, Month of Wind

THE GRAND PALACE, KARNACA

“It’s just too strange to me,” Hypatia sits with her hands folded on her lap. She tries not to be distracted by the extravagance of the room she’s in. “He had enemies, I know that. We all did, it was inevitable. But I’ve been losing sleep over this. Something is wrong.”

The Duke reclines in his office chair, digesting her words. The thoughtful look on his face seems so bizarre and alien; she must actively remind herself that it was Armando, not Luca, though she didn’t dare call him that in front of his guardsmen. Two of them stood watch nearby—one directly by the bookshelf and another at the bottom of the stairs, patrolling.  
Alexandria felt unsettled; she hadn’t had the grand guard watch her like this since her “imprisonment” at Addermire. 

She flinches in surprise when Armando finally says, “I agree with you. It isn’t peculiar that he was murdered. Frankly, the man was a prick. But how do High Judges benefit from his death?”

Hypatia is flooded with relief. She’d been writing dozens of letters to the empress to voice her growing concerns. But Emily was either too preoccupied with other business or turning a deaf ear. And though Alexandria wanted to believe it was the former, she was beginning to lose her hope. 

“I thought about that.” She leans forward, her elbows on her knees. “I think they wouldn’t want any chance of Serkonos surpassing them in technological innovation. And though Jindosh wasn’t really a threat anymore on that front, they decided not to risk it. He was, after all, at his most vulnerable. It was a good time to strike.” She says this matter-of-factly, lost in her theories. But as the words leave her mouth, she feels guilt creep up inside of her. “I should have considered that before I let that woman anywhere near my patients. I had my suspicions almost instantly when she asked about Jindosh. But there was a fire and in the uproar I . . . allowed myself to be deceived. We discovered that the fire was deliberately staged upon later inspection. I’m ashamed of myself.”

Armando’s eyes are kind—almost as kind as her own—and he momentarily breaks his character to offer some comforting words, “You were thinking about your country. That’s perfectly reasonable. If you had denied the Tyvians and their warrant from the High Judges, there might have been a huge mess between us. It would have been a small offence, yes.  
But our empress has only just regained her thrown and all her isles are held together by threads. We’re rebuilding. We’re vulnerable. You chose wisely.”

Despite this, Hypatia cannot shake her disgrace off her shoulders. But to placate Armando, she offers a soft smile and nods. 

“Now,” he says, coughing to clear the air, “Let’s talk about the Tyvians. You said it was several guardsmen and a woman?”

“Not any woman,” she counters, nearly cutting him off. Her eyes are cold. “She claimed to be Anton Sokolov’s estranged daughter. That was the oddest part. I believed her, of course. She looks just like him; perhaps that’s why she made no attempt to hide it. In time, I would have figured it out on my own. I sent word to Dunwall, requesting copies of their legal documents to see if Anton Sokolov was ever married . . . mostly out of my own curiosity I suppose. But why would someone so significant show up out of nowhere after thirty years? Why now and why Jindosh?”

Armando ruminates, his hand on his mouth and his brow furrowed. He reaches for his glass of wine but merely holds it and taps his nails against the glass. “Well, Anton and Kirin were old friends before Kirin’s banishment from the Academy, yes? Do you think Jindosh knew her? Could he have done something to her back then that led her to seek revenge?”

Hypatia nods absentmindedly. “Maybe,” she whispers. Armando continued to theorize while Alexandria lost herself in thought. Yes, Armando’s suggestion was plausible if not exceedingly simplistic. People murder out of revenge every day and for a variety of crimes commited against them. But Alexandria knew what murderous intent looked like and could recognize it in someone’s eyes; it was one of the few gifts that Grim Alex had left to remember her by. It was disturbing, really. Nearly every human being she came across possessed the capacity to kill and do harm. And that day, she had known that the Sokolov woman was capable of it too. Even still, she would have sensed if any of her patients were in immediate danger. And she didn’t. 

That, and there were a few other things that led her to suspicion. The door had been ripped from its iron hinges—punched inward like a crater. No human force could have accomplished that. But something crafted through human force might have. If Amelia had wanted to kill Kirin Jindosh and do it quickly and without much damage, she could have simply shot a bullet or crossbolt through the barred window on the door. And yet she opted to enter the room. Why? 

Why go through the trouble of getting the High Judges to write a warrant—or even fake their signatures—just to get petty revenge? No, no. The High Judges were definitely a part of this equation albeit a mysterious and confusing part.

Why toss the man out the window? There were more brutal ways to kill someone; Hypatia couldn’t even recall the various methods that Grim Alex had once contemplated upon. Perhaps she wouldn’t be so hung up on this detail had she been able to identify the body more clearly. It was just too convenient. 

“Alexandria?”

Her head flicks up and she is immediately embarrassed. “I’m so sorry, I was lost in thought.”

Armanda chuckles and waves a dismissive hand at her. “Don’t apologize. I was just rambling on like a young boy enjoying his mystery novels. It is strange, I’ll admit. Would it make you feel better if I sent a small team to Tyvia to investigate? Just to get some peace?”

Hypatia catches a glimpse of herself in glossy vase on his desk. Her eyes are drooping with exhaustion and her hair is all over the place. She looked like one of her own patients. 

“Yes,” she murmurs, “I’d appreciate that very much.”

\--

28th Day, Month of Wind

THE RESIDENCE OF LIDA, TYVIA

Kirin rolls over in bed, cringing at the discomfort in his neck. He’d slept on it wrong, for sure. The pillows at Amelia’s house were broken in and much more comfortable compared to these bags of lumped cotton. 

Regardless of the shoddy pillows, the blankets and mattress were incredibly warm and inviting. So much so that he makes the rare decision to fall back to sleep, rolling over and snuggling up into Amelia who was huddled in the center of the bed. 

In his dreamlike state, he doesn’t seem to notice at first. He slips an arm under her own and tucks her under his chin, shimmying his legs until they’re intertwined with her own. Finally comfortable, he sighs and begins to dip back into deep sleep. 

“Kirin . . . ?”

Irritated, he blinks. “Mmm?”

“Are you awake?”

“Mm.”

“I don’t think you’re awake.”

Her voice, seemingly disembodied at first, starts to eventually remind him of a certain tall, pale, and incredibly bothersome associate of his. And as her angry and beautiful face takes shape in his memories, he is jolted awake. 

Backpedaling to separate himself from her, he accidentally elbows her in the eye and, as she shouts “FUCK”, tumbles backwards out of the bed and onto the carpeted floor. 

Both of them moan in their respective pain. Amelia cradles her soon-to-be black eye, rolling onto her back as her head begins to spin. Meanwhile, Kirin is sandwiched between the bed and the wall—both legs are sticking up in the air while his torso is propped against the wall, making a “u” shape with his body. 

Lida knocks quietly at the door and lets herself in. She briefly glances at the scene in front of her before signing and saying, slowly, “Good morning.”

\--

Amelia thanks Lida once more before they leave, trying in vain to offer the elderly woman a pouch of coin. Kirin glances out at the state of the roads from his wheelchair, rolling himself out onto the freshly salted sidewalk. There weren’t many people out and about as snow was still falling in thick clumps. A group of men were shoveling snow into the back of a wagon while another group a few feet behind them littered more salt onto the road. Perhaps the way back home wouldn’t be so treacherous after all. 

He is knocked out of his thoughts as Amelia takes hold of his chair and begins to steer him in the other direction. “Don’t drop any of our things, alright? I’ll try not to hit a patch of ice but my depth perception is a little fucked up now.” There’s a dry bite to her words, but she sounds at least a little amused. 

“I apologized for that, come now.” He grips the packages tighter none the less. “And don’t you worry, it’s much easier to hold onto things now that I have five fingers on both hands.”

“We’ll smoke tonight, if you want,” she says this softly, tentatively. “I’ve not done it in a while, so I’ll probably devolve into a coughing fit. But I still have some tobacco leafs in my pantry.”

Jindosh shifts awkwardly in his seat. On one hand, yes, he really wanted to do that. Even with her—maybe because it was with her— but on the other hand, he didn’t want her to get the wrong idea. He had already had an uncomfortable sexual awakening about her the night before. And the last thing he needed was to get emotionally involved so soon after. So, unfortunately, he decided to say, “I think I’d like to spend some time on my own. We were trapped together all day yesterday, after all.” 

He can’t see her face, but he can feel her hurt feelings in her voice when she says, “Yes, of course. I have some work to get done, anyway.”

They travel in silence all the way to the carriage station where their driver greets them and helps load them up into their carriage. The cart wheels have been wrapped with chains to give them better traction and the horses are draped with heavy but breathable blankets. The temperature is much lower this early in the morning and Kirin shivers uncontrollably in the small carriage. Amelia helps the driver load up the wheelchair and secure their luggage before paying him, arguing briefly, and paying him again. At last, she joins him in the cart and he is surprised to see that she too is shaking. He had yet to see her afflicted by the snowy weather but apparently this was no ordinary cold. 

She settles in next to him even though she sat across from him on their way into town. “Come here,” she says, offering her arm. “It’s safer if we huddle. I know you must be suffering.”

Despite his earlier efforts to put emotional distance between them, he couldn’t resist his basic human needs and eagerly nestled against her for warmth. Her left hand squeezes his arm and rubs up and down to create friction; their breaths began to fog up the glass as the carriage jostled and they took off. 

“Our driver must be dying,” Jindosh chatters, his teeth knocking against one another. “I don’t usually pity those less fortunate but this is practically torture.”

“He’s fine,” she assures him, “He’s done this his whole life. And his tolerance is undeniably better than mine. Though, no, I don’t envy him.”  
The ride goes by much slower than it seemed to last time. The horses struggled to navigate through the snow and the carriage underbelly began to clump up with ice. They could hear the driver shout and whip at the animals to carry on; the lantern jostled back and forth wildly with each lunge of the cart from one side to the other. Amelia and Kirin sit in silence, holding onto each other for warmth and balance, and simply wait. 

He closes his eyes to keep from getting sick and, with his sense of vision gone, he can smell her subtle hair tonic and feel the warm puffs of her breath on his cheek. Opening his eyes, he looks down at her gloved hand on his shoulder. She has done nothing but protect and help him. 

“I apologize for earlier,” he mumbles against his better judgement. 

He risks glancing at her through the corner of his eye. She’s smiling, looking straight ahead. “I told you it’s fine. It’s not my first black eye and it certainly won’t be my last. You have a mean swing, though.”

He considers leaving the conversation there, but the sliver a good man living deep inside of him forces him to continue, “No, for turning down your offer. It was rude of me. I’d love to sit and smoke with you, maybe hear about this project of yours.”

Kirin is devastated by how warm his cheeks feel. That blood could be warming his freezing hands but, no, it decided to screw him over. Oh well, there were worse and less convenient places for it to go right now. 

Amelia is silent and he can feel her staring at him. He looks down at her, and she appears a little star struck with her rosy lips parted in awe, tufts of warm breath escaping into the atmosphere. As he catches her in the act, she is brought back to reality and snaps herself out of the stupor, physically shaking her head to do so. “Yes, ah, that would be lovely.”

The two of them sit in silence again but it is a different kind of quiet. She feels like she’s fourteen again, being romanced by some academy student while she waits to speak with Anton. Those days were so long ago and she’d been through so much shit since then; almost all forms of affection were associated with sexual harassment by this point. She couldn’t remember if she’d ever experienced a harmless form of love.

Kirin, on the other hand, had experienced this before and had deemed it unnecessary and, above all, distracting. Fucking was different, of course, because it happened so infrequently and so quickly that it amounted to nothing. He had fallen in love before, yes, and he’d had his heart on his sleeve. But each and every time he made himself vulnerable it resulted in failure. And Kirin learned best from his failures, he always had. 

This wasn’t love, no. It wasn’t nearly as pure or as perfected. It was riddled with anxieties and anger and distrust. It was also between two people who could, at this point in their lives, never love properly. No amount of repair could make it so that Amelia didn’t question every act of kindness shown to her and no quantity of therapy could make Kirin unlearn his emotional distancing from others. 

But, with all hardware, there were salvageable pieces. It could become something close to love. 

They weren’t far from the greenhouse now. They’d been traveling for an hour and a half compared to the twenty minute drive it normally took. Looking out the window proved to be pointless as the snowfall had turned into a small blizzard, blanketing them in a shroud. Outside, they could still hear their driver shouting to the horses, his voice growing shrill from cold damage. 

Then everything came to a stop. The carriage halted, the horses began to whinny violently, and the driver fell silent. 

Kirin began to open his mouth to ask what was going on when Amelia clamped a hand around his mouth to hush him. He is alarmed by how hard her touch is—like stone under the glove. When he glances over at her, her face is ashen and focused. She’s unmoving. Listening. 

The driver can be heard standing up, the wood creaking. They can hear his careful steps as he moves with slow caution. Both inventors flinch at the sound of a gun loading and cocking. Kirin’s immediate thoughts are that the driver recognized him and has been paid to kill him. He’d been secretly worried about being assassinated during this entire trip and had just begun to let his guard down. But he was worried for more than just himself—Amelia was there too. 

Amelia, sensing Kirin’s apprehensions, shook her head and leaned in close to his ear, close enough that her lips brushed against the cold flesh, and said, “Wolves.”

As if speaking them into existence, the minute the words left her mouth, the silence was filled with the sound of a gunshot. The carriage lurched to the right and they could hear the sounds of a struggle, the unmistakable growling of a creature twice their own size, and the gurgled screaming of their driver as he was dragged away into the night. 

Then it was quiet again, all except the sound of the horses panicking. The carriage began to move again, too fast, too frantically, and it became clear that the horses had taken off on their own. This dawned on Amelia first who struggled to gain her footing in the wilding swinging carriage. 

“What are you doing?!” Yelled Kirin, reaching for her waist to pull her back to her seat. She whirled around and pushed him back down. 

“We’ll crash!” She shouted, kicking the top hatch of the carriage off. Wind and snow flooded into the cart. “Or they’ll lead us fifty miles away from the house! I’m going to reign them in! Stay here!”

Then she pulled herself up through the roof and was gone. 

Jindosh sat there, heart racing, and wondered why Emily Kaldwin couldn’t have just killed him when she had the chance. 

Amelia has a harder time than anticipated once on top of the carriage. The snow is slick on top of the metal roof and her gloved hands and clothed knees don’t provide enough balance while the carriage plummets ahead. Thankfully the lantern was still burning bright in defiance of how violently the cart was shaking it. She squints against the freezing wind, her eyes tearing up from its bite, and tries to make out her surroundings. 

On all sides of them, silky black shadows moved in stride, stalking them. Their glassy eyes reflected against the lantern’s light through the rapid slits between trees. They were being hunted by an entire pack, by the looks of it. 

Without warning, the horses dodged a tree in their path, causing the carriage to veer dangerous on its left side. Amelia screamed as she slid off the metal roof, extending her stronger right hand out for the metal railing that their luggage was strapped to. She was able to grasp it and, using its power, pulled herself up enough to grab it with her left hand. 

From here, she could see that the strap of the gun had caught on the handle of the driver’s bench. It was just within reach, if she could shimmy across. Just then, she could hear galloping steps closing in on her and, glancing over her shoulder, saw one of the wolves moving in to jump her. Her back was to it—if she could get her right hand free and rely only on her left, she could aim it and—

A pistol fires right next to her ear, causing it to ring painfully. Amelia whips her head around to see Jindosh leaning out the window with a pistol trained on moving shadows. “Look what I found under one of the seat cushions!” 

The horses continue their mindless running, refusing to slow down, and the carriage is having a much harder time now that they’re off the beaten path. “Come back inside!” He pleads, “If we crash, it’ll still be safer in here than out there!”

“I can do it!” She screams, continuing to move toward the driver’s seat. “Just cover me!”

“Amelia!” He complains, understandably concerned. But she ignores him and finally makes it close enough to swing one long leg up and onto the wooden bench. 

Jindosh spots another of the wolves going for the horse on the other side of the carriage and flings himself to the other window, aiming, and firing. He misses at first and the wolf grazes the horse with its claws. Terrified and in pain, the horse flings itself away from the pain and directly into the other horse. Both animals become disoriented and attempt to pull away in opposite directions. This causes the carriage to zig-zag back and forth, nearly tipping over. 

Amelia loses her footing on the bench as the cart tips to the left, causing her feet to drag in the snow. She swears under her breath, her muscles growing weary, and uses the momentum of the cart as it tips to the other side to swing herself up to the bench again. This time, she gains a secure foothold and grabs onto the handle with her hand, pulling herself up and onto the seat. 

There’s not a moment to relax, unfortunately. She takes hold of the reigns and begins to scream at the horses, whipping them and pulling hard to get them to calm down and focus. The gunshots aren’t helping their fear but Kirin is doing his job—keeping the wolves at bay. At the very least, she’s able to steer them back onto the trail. 

In the carriage, Jindosh can hear Amelia yelling at the horses and can physically notice the ride becoming smoother and more controlled. There’s a hound coming up from the right and he goes to fire at it before realizing the gun is out of ammunition. 

“Amelia?!” 

She looks over her shoulder at Kirin’s head poking up through the top of the roof. “What?!”

"We have a pro— watch it!!” 

She saw his eyes grow wide and turned her head around to see a wolf with its jaw around the neck of the right horse clinging with its claws dug in at different angles to hold on. The horse lets out a terrified noise before stumbling and falling. The other horse, connected by the reigns, is forced to follow suit and the carriage runs all three of them over, sending the entire thing flying through the air. 

Amelia is tossed from her seat and lands harshly on her side as the carriage flips over her. She rolls four or five times through the snow, hearing the cart crash and tumble in a heap of wood and metal. 

Face down in the snow, she moans in pain. Three ribs cracked. Bruised tailbone. Left shoulder dislocated. She can’t feel the pain right now; she can’t afford to. Using her right arm, she pushes herself up and whimpers at the sight of the carriage—in a heap against a tree. Her glasses were shattered upon impact so she can only make out the vague shape of it. 

But she knows it’s bad. 

“Kirin?” she calls out softly. 

Behind her, the wolves are tearing the horses apart. They’re distracted for now. 

“Kirin.” She pulls herself up and begins to limp toward the wreckage. Not like this. Not after all that work she went through to get him here. Not after she spent all that time to bring him back. 

She digs her fingers into the metal door of the carriage and rips it off completely, tossing it aside. In the dark, and in the blurriness of her vision, she can see him huddled in a ball against what once was a plush seat cushion. 

Using her teeth, she yanks the glove off of her left hand—the arm is dislocated and doing this is accompanied by a pained whine through gritted teeth, but she had to be able to feel his skin, to feel his face. 

Blood is leaking out of his nose and the corners of his mouth. His skin is bruised, yes, but there are no bones protruding from his flesh. There are several cuts along his fore head where the shrapnel of the carriage likely cut him. His eyes are closed. 

“Kirin?” She whispers, wiping blood away from his nose and lips. “Are you . . . ?”

She had slipped her fingers down the collar of his coat to feel for a pulse when he said, “I told you it’d be safer inside the carriage. You look like a damned mess.”

Amelia feels no shame in the sound she made—one of delighted relief—and she wraps her good arm around him, helping him up out of the carriage. Both of them on their knees, they hesitate there for a moment, just clinging onto one another and breathing hard, before finally Amelia steps up and helps Jindosh to his feet. 

Out of the frying pan and into the fire, it would seem. 

They were surrounded by the pack on all sides, the snow around them a bloody, sloppy mess from the horses. The low rumble of growling was enough to make the hairs on the back of Kirin’s neck stand up straight. “Aren’t they full?” he bemoans. “They ate a grown man and two horses.”

“Get back in the carriage,” Amelia orders, limping up from behind him and putting herself in front of him. 

“Did you hit your head? I’m not going anywhere. You’re in no shape to do anything.”

“Get back, Kirin.” The walls around them begin to close in. The snow has stopped falling.

“Amelia,” he says, his voice unwavering. “We’re dying either way. And I’m going to die right here . . . right beside you.”

“You’re always arguing against me,” she says. She can’t help but laugh a little, putting Kirin on edge. “Have I ever told you to do something that didn’t benefit you? Can’t you just trust me?”

She looks back at him and he realizes at once that she’s not frightened. “Get back in the carriage, please.”

Relenting, he takes slow and cautious steps backwards until he is submerged in the wreckage again. He can see her and a few wolves from this position. He wonders briefly if he’s ready to watch her die. 

Amelia lifts her right arm to her mouth, taking the gloved fingers between her teeth, and tugs the glove off her arm. As the piece of cloth falls to the snow, several of the wolves dart forward and Amelia raises her arm straight up to the sky. Piercing blue light illuminates the clearing like a bolt of lightning and, when the light fades, Amelia is still standing there with ashen snow at her feet. 

Kirin is still trying to process what has happened when his eyes lock onto her right arm. His breath catches in his throat. It’s made of amber wood panels covering iron mechanisms just beneath the surface. There is a miniature whale oil tank—no bigger than a pill bottle— in the center of her forearm. And the hand . . . is not a hand. The fingers—what were once fingers—have spread out to create a cage-like dome similar to an—

\--arc pylon. 

He looks again at the piles of ash in the snow. 

In that moment, more wolves lunge and it would seem the small whale oil tank did not have enough charge for a second pulse. Jindosh watches as the mechanisms convert back—so quickly, so fluidly—into the shape of her hand and one of the forearm panels lifts, moves, and reveals the front half of a pistol. The hand mechanism moves and dislocates at the wrist, sliding down the underarm on a track as the pistol comes forward, locking into place. She aims and fires at the wolves on the left, hitting them both. But there were more coming up from behind. One jumped and Amelia didn’t have time to turn and shoot it. Instead, it’s jaws clamped down onto the mechanical arm and the wolf began to backpedal in an attempt to either pull her down to the ground or rip the appendage off. 

Amelia grunts, digging her feet into the snow, and retracts the pistol, opting instead to rotate the hand back into place and expand the panels of the forearm. The wolves jaw begins to open with the expanding panels and the two of them struggle back and forth in the snow while the remaining few wolves circle and look for an opportunity. When the wolf’s jaw was open a significant amount, Amelia twisted her wrist and the panels closed quickly, allowing her to yank her arm away before the wolf’s jaw closed again. Thrown off by this, the creature makes a wild lunge and Amelia growls, slamming her metal fist into the side of its head. It crumpled to the ground, lifeless, with a hole crushed into the side of its skull. 

Panting, Amelia scrambles in the snow, her hair wet and bloody, sticking to her face. Another wolf tries to jump at her and she grabs it mid-air by its snout, muzzling it, and slams it into the ground one—two—three—four times until its head was a bleeding pile of bone against the icy turf. 

She clambers to her feet, now covered in melted snow and animal blood, and locks eyes with the remaining two wolves. They’re body movements suggest fear and apprehension. They’re warning her not to come closer and they themselves are beginning to back away, their ears flat against the sides of their heads and their teeth bared in warning. Once they are at a safe distance, they turn in unison and dart back into the woods. 

Amelia doesn’t make a move. She just sort of stands there, staring after them, breathing raggedly. Her cracked ribs have begun to make their presence known and all the moving about caused her dislocated arm to swell. 

A hand touches her back and she whirls around, stumbling in the sloshy snow, and nearly falls over if Jindosh hadn’t caught her and helped her sit down carefully. He squats next to her as she catches her breath and they stare at each other for a long moment. The electrical whirring the mechanical arm—so quiet that it could be easily masked by a couple layers of clothing—seemed so loud to him now. He looks down at it and where it had torn through her sleeve with its electrical pulse. The fabric was singed and falling apart. 

“You could have told me about this much sooner,” he says quietly. She lowers her head, avoiding him, and he brings his fingers to her chin to lift it back up. “I’m serious. I wish I had known.”

“I wanted it to be different.” She looks so tired. “I wanted you to trust me first.”

“I trust you with my life,” he breathes, reaching down and cupping her face in his hands. The skin is so cold. They needed to get home. 

She slumps in his grasp, exhausted, and he pulls her into him until her chin rests on his shoulder. He wonders for a moment if he’s strong enough yet to lift her up. But was there a choice, really? He couldn’t leave her here, not after all that. 

Her metal arm is heavy and proves to be a significant problem as he struggles to stand up. His arms are twisted around her waist and he uses the upper body strength he’d regained to pull her with him. She’s lucid enough to stand the rest of the way on her own. “How far from the road are we?” he asks, beginning to lift her injured arm over his shoulder. She winces and he stops instantly. 

“Not too far, I think. Should just be through those trees. Then it can’t be but a five minute walk.”

“Well, it’s good exercise at least,” he grumbles. “You aren’t hiding any mechanical legs that might help carry us, are you?”

He’s pleased when she laughs. 

The two of them hobble home, leaving their luggage in the bloody clearing. Amelia was right, the porch lights of the greenhouse were visible in the distance within the first two minutes of walking. The horses hadn’t led them too far astray after all. That was fortunate, because by the time Kirin opened the front door and the two of them collapsed onto the carpeted foyer, he had spent all of his energy. 

\--

A few hours later, they were seated in front of the fireplace in Amelia’s reading room. She sat on her knees in front of it while Kirin kneeled behind her, one hand on her left arm and the other on her shoulder to steady himself. She’s sitting in an undershirt with her hair up for the first time. It’s here that he can see the inhibitor on her own neck. 

“Are you ready?”

“Do it.” 

He’s performed this before. He makes it quick and precise, popping the joint back into place. It’s painful nonetheless and Amelia muffles a scream, going stiff. He holds her steady and waits for the pain to subside. 

When, at last, it does, he pulls her back until she’s resting against him. She allows this, staring absently at the flames. “You need to lie down,” he says softly, placing his chin on her good shoulder. “You’re ribs are cracked and they’ll need time to heal.” 

“I know,” she replies. “I just want to lie here for a bit, if that’s alright.”

He glances down at the glossy wood and metal of her arm, then at her peaceful face as it rests against him. “Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've written novels and I'm used to making chapters last for 60+ pages but, when I'm writing fanfiction, I have to reduce that. So it's always interesting to write action scenes that would normally take 2 pages to focus on one detail that now have to flow quicker and more concisely. Anyway. Soft Jindosh is my weakness.


	6. The Dance

6

THE ACADEMY OF NATURAL PHILOSOPHY

13th Day, Month of Nets, 1832

The grand halls of the Academy seemed to stretch on for miles. Their ceilings were so high that she had to crane her neck to study the ancient chandeliers that dangled from them. The Academy prided itself in its prestige, and their décor matched their lofty behavior—extravagant but severely outdated. This was especially noticeable by the carpeted floors which were cleaned bi-weekly; they were worn dull and flat near the center where students had traversed back and forth from class to class. 

Giant display cases lined the walls. While the golden plaques and rose wood were polished daily, the items inside had not been touched in years—maybe decades—and had accumulated quite a bit of dust. 

Amelia sat on a bench which might have once been quite plushy and comfortable if it had not seated countless students over the years. She sat at an angle because of this. Still, she was sitting as primly as she could manage. Her shoes had a layer of mud caked to the soles and she had nearly fainted when a professor had yelled at her for tracking mud through the grand hall. He hadn’t recognized her. Of course he hadn’t. 

Students pass by her as she sits and waits. Some of them turn their noses up at her and others pretend not to see her at all. She had noticed after the third or fourth time that this was the standard behavior of a nineteen year old Academy student. 

The door to her left creaks open and she is immediately out of her seat—standing straight as an arrow, smoothing a strand of her hair behind her ear. 

Anton’s back is to her as he shuffles out of his office and turns to lock the door for the day. He’s carrying a satchel bag full of work to be graded and a flask tucked safely away at the bottom. And he seems to be grumbling to himself—something he’d started to do as he grew older, to his dismay. 

When he finally turns to leave, he nearly shouts as her presence surprises him, putting a hand over his startled heart. “By the void!” he gasps. “Haven’t I made it clear to you that you aren’t welcome here?”

He begins to briskly walk past her, but she instantly matches his stride. “I just want to speak with you. If you could just let me show you some of the things I’ve been working on—,”

“I’ve seen your thesis papers, yes. And your blueprints and your experimentation reports. And they’ve all gone in the trash. This is practically harassment.” He is looking over his shoulder as he speaks, searching to make sure they cannot be overheard. 

Amelia is undeterred; she’s heard this speech before. “Did you look at them before you threw them out? Did you get my letter last week? It was just a personal letter, I promise. But did you at least read the study results? I’ve really made a lot of progress since the last time I submitted an application—,”

He stops in his tracks and pivots until he has cut her path off. Amelia has to stumble back to avoid running into him, looking up at his darkened face. He seems to tower over her. “That is enough. I’ve had it with your entitled behavior.” 

While Amelia shrinks into herself, Anton quickly glances about before grabbing her by her upper arm and roughly pulling her into a nearby storage closet. He flings her in first, letting go too quickly, and she knocks over a mop bucket stationed too close to the door. He then comes into the room himself—taking one final look around—and closes the door.

Complete darkness. 

She stands in silence for a split second, her pants legs damp with dirty water and her arm aching softly from how hard he grabbed it. Then Anton reaches up and turns on the light. 

In this confined and private space, he corners her and gets right up next to her face, pointing a wrinkling finger at her. In a harsh whisper he says, “Do you think you deserve to attend this Academy just because you’re affiliated with me? Do you think you have what it takes through sheer association? There are students here who have worked hard to get here and, what? You believe I’m just going to let you in because I owe it to you? You’re so transparent! You think that I’m . . . your _father_ , so you’re just so very determined to follow in my footsteps. But I’m telling you right now that you don’t have what it takes. Intellect isn’t hereditary, my dear. And if you had any sense at all you would see that.”

Her pulse is racing the more he berates her. And soon the fear gives way to anger as she swats his finger out of her face. “I don’t _think_ I deserve to be here. I _know_ it. And if you would—if you would just listen to me or—or read any of my letters or just---just let me show you--!”

“I don’t have to do any of that. And I won’t. Because I know you’re just trying to get close to me. And I refuse to let you feast upon my hard work like a parasite just because your mother told you that I’m your—,”

“You _are_ my father!” She shouts, too loud. He clamps a hand down over her mouth, fearing that he heard footsteps approaching. Amelia furiously claws at his hand and bites down on one of his fingers. Anton yelps and pulls the hand back. “Look at me! Look at me and tell me I’m not your—,”

He doesn’t think when he reels back and slaps her across the face. Instantly after he’s done it, he feels his heart swell with regret. After all, he hadn’t wanted to hurt her. And yet he always managed to. 

Amelia’s hands come up to protect her from more harm and she sinks to a squat against the metal storage shelf. It’s an unnecessary precaution; Anton has retreated to the other side of the closet. They say nothing to one another as someone passes by outside the door, chatting amicably with a friend. 

As the sound fades away, he attempts to approach her, saying softly, “I’m sor . . . I didn’t want to hurt you. Are you alright?”

He’s alarmed when she abruptly stands up and her eyes—her _mother’s_ eyes—were so full of anger and pain, brimming with tears. She sniffles once or twice before moving her hand away from her face, revealing a sizable red welt. Anton’s shoulders fall. 

“Why don’t you like me?” she asks, her voice so earnest. “What am I doing wrong? I’m trying so hard . . .” Her voice cracks and she stifles a sob as tears fall one after another down her face. “I don’t know what to do to get you to like me.” 

He watches her until her crying comes to a slow end and he takes this time to steel himself and decide the best way to handle this. At last, he says, “Stop writing to me. Stop coming by here. Stop trying. I made sure you were set up with a nice family; they’ve got their own children and they seem very welcoming of you. Are they not enough? I heard you have your own room and they buy you books and clothing when you ask for it. Why can’t that be enough?”

Herein lies Anton’s fundamental misunderstanding. He was never prepared to be a husband—let alone of father. And, truly, he couldn’t understand why she was so unhappy. Unsatisfied. He was meeting all of her needs—or, at least, he had arranged for someone else to. She was fed and protected and, from what he was told, loved. So why was she so desperately trying to associate with him? Wasn’t their relationship over when her mother died? Wasn’t she the only remaining tie between the two of them?

Amelia is crestfallen. She looks at him and her eyes look the same as they do after all of her visits—dejected but not defeated. “You can’t get rid of me.”

\--

THE SOKOLOV ESTATE

4th Day, Month of Darkness, 1852

“Is this all you could salvage?” Amelia scans the pile of luggage and debris that has been dumped onto her doorstep. The woman she’d hired to recover their belongings pats her hands on her thighs to shake off the loose snow. 

“Yea, unless you wanted that pile of horse bones too.” 

Amelia shoots her an unamused stare before bending down and rummaging through the remains. All the grocery products they’d purchased were gone, likely eaten. Her satchel bag was amongst the ruin with several tears in the fabric. Inside, the parts she’d picked up from Vas were still in their package. But when she went to grab it, she could feel that several of the pieces were broken. 

“Damn it,” she curses, setting it aside to examine later. 

She is relieved to see the cane she’d bought for Kirin amongst the destruction. Most of the pile consisted of chunks of broken wood which had once been Jindosh’s wheelchair. For the past four days, he’d been using the walls to get around and had mostly been trapped in his bedroom. Amelia was too injured to carry him around like she used to, so this was a miracle of sorts. Everything could be replaced, in the end. Except, she supposed, the driver. 

“Well. This will do. Here, take your payment.” She produces a couple of coins from her pocket. “And if you wouldn’t mind, move all of the remains to the curb. I’ll burn it later.”

“Can do.” The woman takes the money and quickly tucks it away in her bag. “Oh, I almost forgot. Ran into a carrier on their way to your estate. He handed me this, said to give it to you. Apparently your route is ridiculously out of his way.”

She produces a thick envelope with a red wax stamp, placing it into Amelia’s waiting hand. Before it even graces her palm, Amelia knows who it’s from. She breathes in and lets it out slowly. 

“Thank you. That will be all.”

\--

Kirin had taken to writing down more memoirs. Since his traumatic run-in with Emily, he’d realized that there was only a handful of evidence that’d he’d even existed. He’d spent so much time on the clockwork soldiers near the peak of his career that all other projects seemed to pale in comparison. What major contributions had he made aside from the silvergraph and audiograph machines? What was he remembered by if not the clockworks? But they were so few in number that, when he disappeared from the world, they were easily split up and divvied out to those who had funded the project. 

Amelia had shown him a newspaper article for the Dolores Michaels’ bank wherein they unveiled the new clockworks they’d “inherited.” Sokolov had not expected him to become so outraged at the photo displayed under the clipping—one of the earlier prototypes that’d he had done away with. He had improved upon it. Considered it obsolete. And now it was the only thing left of him? 

So now he plans ahead to when he can finally announce to the isles that he is alive and, even better, restored. 

Those newspaper clippings were not the only ones in Amelia’s collection. She gave him full access to her records, stating that he had a right to them. She’d been collecting them to keep track of Kirin’s whereabouts before her rescue mission. She claimed she had no use for them now and softly suggested they belonged in the trash. He disagreed. 

_I cannot say whether or not the blow I was dealt by Emily Kaldwin was completely unfortunate. Yes, it has caused me great physical and emotional toil, that is indisputable. But had the young Empress not intervened, I am certain that I would have continued devoting all of my time and energy into my Clockwork Soldier project. And now I see that I had wasted many opportunities in the process. I cannot tell you how many ideas struck me while I labored—how many brilliant designs that I ignored in favor of what I thought was the heir to my legacy. And yes I do believe that, given more favorable circumstances, the completion of my clockwork army would have cemented my role in history. But that was not the hand I was dealt._

_So perhaps I owe a debt of gratitude to our empress for her timely intervention. Many windows have opened up for me since then. Though, I suppose I owe a much greater debt to my new accomplice, Sokolov’s daughter, Amelia. She is still withholding information from me but I feel as though she is simply waiting for the right time. I’ve never met someone so obsessed with proving herself—she’s already done so, as far as I am concerned. Her sell-out of a father ought to have a decent excuse as to why he has hidden her from me all these years. Either way, I have never felt so inspired in my life; a fire has been relit within me and I look forward to the opportunity to remake my image._

He hastily puts his pen down and tucks the paper away as he hears her footsteps approaching down the hall. What he had said about her was true, yes, but he didn’t want her to know that. She would have to wait until it was published just like everyone else. 

“You won’t believe what made it through the wreckage,” Amelia chimes, entering the room without so much as a knock on the door. 

Kirin throws a sneer her way, eyeing the dark wooden cane she was twirling. “Do Tyvian’s not practice basic etiquette? Do you know what privacy means?”

“Too much privacy out here, in the middle of nowhere, will drive a man mad.” She offers him the end of the cane and he dully stares at it. 

“Is that what happened to you?” 

“Cheeky.” 

He relents and pulls himself up from his chair, taking the handle of the cane from her. She stands next to him, arms out but not touching, ready to catch him if he falls. “In a week, we’ll have you dancing again.”

Jindosh yearns to retort but steadying himself with the cane proves to be a lot harder than he initially thought. His arm strength had returned to him quicker than anything else. And even his legs had built back the three months of disuse. It wasn’t a physical issue at all—it was mental. He brain was working hard to tell his muscles what to do and when. Something like writing or eating or even standing was easy enough. But moving both legs and an arm in sync with one another while also maintaining balance was a different challenge. 

“Kirin,” she says to him. She was normally so sarcastic and brash with him, refusing to put up with his antics. But in moments like these, she showed genuine support. “Even if you fall, you can just try again. But we can’t even fail if you don’t try.”

“Thank you, nanny. So motherly of you.”

She lets the comment roll of her shoulders. Now was not the time to get upset with him. Instead, she moves out in front of him to stand a foot or so away. When she leaves his side, he instantly looks up at her in alarm. He is without a safety net. 

“Come here,” she says, extending her arms. “If you can make it this far, then owe you one question, remember? Just a couple of steps.”

He feels his arms shaking the longer he remains standing in such a stiff position. He needed to move soon or else he’d collapse on himself. “I don’t think I can.” He admits, feeling the frustration building inside him. 

“You can,” she assures him. “You carried me through the forest. You moved around freely. And you can do it again.”

“That was different,” he rasps, feeling his legs begin to buckle. “That was the adrenaline; it’s different now.”

“Come here,” she says again. When he looks up at her, she feels like she’s an ocean away. But her face is so calm and reassuring. He can tell she’s done the calculations and tallied the odds. She doesn’t believe it’s possible, she knows it. 

Kirin clenches jaw and refuses to look back down to the floor. As long as he keeps his eyes on hers, he can banish doubt from his mind. If he could only focus—just think about the prospect of being in his laboratory again—of recovering and returning to the world with a vengeance—

He’s startled when he bumps into her and her arms wrap around his waist, steading him. She’s cheering for him and he can hear her, but he can only turn his head and look back at the distance he’d crossed in shock. It had been possible, after all. 

“Yes, excellent!” She says, reaching up and brushing his hair back with two metallic fingers. “You’ll be dancing again in no time.”

He looks down at her and offers her a thankful, if not a little smug smile. “With who, you? You’ve made a decent partner thus far, I must say.”

That was . . . admittedly not the most appropriate response he could have come up with. He is immediately aware of this the second it leaves his mouth and he sees her eyes widen. Such a fine line there was between his default teasing and flirtatious comments. Jindosh clears his throat and clumsily says, “Well. That came out wrong.”

Amelia, who had secretly been pleased when he had made the comment, appears deflated despite her best efforts. She places a hard smile on her face and makes sure he is balanced before removing herself from around him. She isn’t exactly sure what she was hoping would happen. But she knows that she feels foolish for thinking it. 

“It’s fine. I’m not one for dancing, anyway.”


	7. A Decision

7  
THE RESIDENCE OF AMELIA SOKOLOV

8th Day, Month of Darkness, 1852

Kirin removes his reading glasses and sets aside the hefty tome he’d been reading from. Hours had passed since he’d settled into bed for the night; he’d finally gotten to the point where he didn’t need Amelia’s help getting around his room. As he rubs wearily at his fatigued eyes and stretches out his spindly legs under the blankets, he glances at the clock on the wall. 5 in the morning. In Karnaca, the sun would be on the brink of rising; the city would be washed in a pale blue as the birds began to chirp. Here, in Tyvia, the darkness was eternal. 

He sighs, knowing he won’t be able to sleep, and decides to climb out of bed and make his way to the kitchen. Amelia didn’t approve of him walking around the mansion late at night—if he fell, she wouldn’t find him until the morning because, unlike him, she had no trouble going to bed at a reasonable time. 

At any rate, he grabs his cane and pulls his robe on. He liked to sleep nude and hadn’t been able to when Amelia was helping him with his nightly routine. After some consideration, he decided to wear his slippers as well even though the home was mostly carpeted. 

His door creaks as it opens and he doesn’t bother to close it when he steps out into the hallway. Amelia’s bedroom was on the other side of the floor so there was no risk of waking her up. Odd. He cannot fathom why he’s concerned about her getting her rest. 

Taking the stairs would be quicker and stealthier but he didn’t trust his legs to do it yet. He’d done it once when she was with him, yes, but it was always different when she was there to catch him. 

The green house was massive—larger than he gave it credit for. Without servants, it was also very quiet and at times eerie. Often the wind would howl and bellow against the large windowed walls but tonight the outside world was completely still. The only noise was the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the main parlor and Kirin’s shuffling footfalls. 

He was not a superstitious man, no. He didn’t believe in the supernatural and even believed the void itself was an equation of some sort. So the chill that ran down his spine now was not from any paranormal fear. No, what he felt was vulnerable helplessness caused by the trauma he’d endured months ago. An inescapable paranoia brought on by the fear of someone waiting in the wings to kill him. 

Before he was the grand inventor, before he was The Kirin Jindosh, he was just himself. Some middle class man who seemed to always come so close to greatness before it all collapsed underneath him. He’d dealt with his fair share of robberies at the hands of street rats and mobsters. He’d had his life threatened and people had done harm—so much of it—to him. But no one had ever taken from him what he considered to be his most valuable asset; his mind. 

Kirin boils water and makes his way over to the coffee grinder. The lights of the kitchen do little to help him shake the feeling of being alone. Inwardly, he kicks himself over his own foolish paranoia. Sokolov was right upstairs. All he would have to do was yell and she’d be there in a second, brandishing that mechanical oddity of an appendage. 

But no one was coming for him. He had to remind himself of that. He was safe here. She’d gone to great lengths to make sure of that. And, to that end, he trusted her. 

As he works, he thinks back on their conversation the other day—the one they’d had just after he’d made his first steps of progress. She’d stayed true to her word and had allowed him one question. 

\--

“Why haven’t I heard of you before?” 

Kirin had spent the evening thinking of the question he wanted to ask her. There were several on his list, but this one puzzled him the most. 

Amelia, bent over a bundle of wires and circuits sticking out of another mechanical arm, sort of chuckles to herself. She’s wearing a welder’s helmet which effectively protects her from the sparks flying at her face. Unfortunately, it also masks her expressions from Kirin as he sits across from her, leaning on his elbow as she works. 

They’re sitting in one of the old classrooms. Amelia said that it wasn’t technically a laboratory, more of a workspace, and that he could sit and watch her if he wanted to. There really wasn’t much else to do anyway and he enjoyed the smell of soldering. 

“Do you mean ‘why didn’t Anton tell me about you’ or ‘why haven’t you announced to the whole empire who you are’?”

He makes a ‘hmm’ sound while he thinks, his mouth twisted to the side. “Both,” he retorts dryly. “The question encompasses both.” 

“It does not.” She chuckles. “Those are two questions rolled into one. If I let that slide, you’ll ask me ‘what are all of your secrets’ next.”

“Be reasonable,” he groans, rubbing at his temples. What a stubborn young woman. She definitely inherited that trait from her father. 

“Fine,” she says with a laugh, continuing without slowing down as she works, “You haven’t heard of me because my Father and Mother divorced two years after I was born and he had nothing to do with us afterward. I never even met him until I was fifteen years old. So, what? You’re ten years older than me? You would have been his student when I was five or six years old. They weren’t in contact anymore by then.”

“Who married them?” He asks, his chin balanced on his open palm as he ruminates on the information. 

“An overseer, I assume,” she replies casually. “His name is on the marriage license. But I can’t remember it and I haven’t looked at that thing in years.”

“So you have it?” His voice is almost sing-songy; he’s very amused by this. Anton Sokolov, legally married! The tom cat! The scoundrel! “May I see it?”

“No you may not,” her voice falls an octave and she speaks in a deadpan, no-nonsense tone. “It’s buried away somewhere in my things, anyway. It’s not worth the trouble.”

“You haven’t told the isles who you are because digging through your paperwork is too much trouble?” He asks jokingly. 

“Very funny. No, I’ve not told anyone who I am because I don’t want to be associated with him.”

Kirin’s smile falls a bit. He can remember a time when he was sixteen and would have done anything to be related to Anton Sokolov. It was foolish of him, yes, and he looks back on it now and shudders. But even at the peak of his success, Kirin only had a fraction of the fame Anton Sokolov’s name could induce. Being a Sokolov was, to many people, the highest of honors. 

“Why is that?”

“Are you joking?” she looks up at him, the black welding mask glinting in the overhead lights. He is a bit taken aback by the abruptness of her question. “You must be. 

Surely you of all people understand why I wouldn’t want every single one of my successes to be traced back and attributed to my connection to Anton Sokolov?” she falls silent, searching his eyes from behind the mask. Kirin looks away, realizing what she was saying with a bit of resentment. 

Of course he knew what she meant. After every masterpiece he spent hours perfecting, he was left with a product that he didn’t feel was completely his own. So much of Anton’s influence could still be seen in his own works. 

“I’ve made many things,” she continues finally, looking back down at the arm piece in front of her. “But I’ve made them all out of spite for him. So then, if he’s the reason they exist at all, aren’t they then his creations and not my own?” 

They sit in silence for a moment. Kirin thinks about what she says and fights the urge to ask something he knows will outrage her. “Aren’t you his creation? Isn’t everything you touch, then, his? Even if you do everything in your power to prevent that?” Maybe he would have said it to her when they’d first met. But now he feels something within him begging him not to. Not out of fear that she might pull a knife on him again but . . . out of empathy for her. Or, maybe, out of respect. He could not name it. 

Instead, he says, “So you haven’t told the empress or the rest of the isles because—,”

“—because I refuse to ride his coat tails into fame. I’ll reveal myself to the world after I’ve pushed Tyvia into an industrial revolution.” Sparks fly up into the mask, creating a shower of golden light. “And I’d like for you to join me.”

\--

He glances at the clock in the main parlor and sighs.

What was he doing here? Why was he getting comfortable? He was beginning to regain his strength and build up Amelia’s trust. If he wanted to, he could write a letter to the Duke right now and be brought back to Karnaca without Amelia ever suspecting a thing. 

He’d seen Luca’s picture in the papers; Emily had left him unscathed for whatever reason. And while Luca’s recent actions seemed out of his character, Kirin merely chalked it all up to Emily having eyes all over the palace. Even Luca knew when to concede. 

But perhaps if Kirin sent him an anonymous letter, Luca could find the will to rebel again? 

Kirin looks down at the steaming cup of coffee and takes in his muddled reflection. Despite all the shit he’d been through in the last few weeks, he looks healthier now than he had in years. Amelia had rekindled his desire for rivalry and the thrill that came from speaking with someone who knew what you were talking about. There was a promising future for him here if he chose to pursue it. A different one than he had planned for himself, yes, but one that might be better for him. 

His tired eyes refocus on his reflection and he frowns at the soft, longing expression on his face. 

He had once hoped for a very similar future with Anton. He would not repeat the same mistakes again. 

Jindosh enters Amelia’s private office, being careful with the heavy door as he closes it. She’d shown him this room not long after he’d woken up in her lab. It was smaller than the classrooms and had likely been the botanist’s personal office when he was still teaching classes. The walls were a dark, ocean blue made of chipping wallpaper. The white trim around the floors outlined the worn down brown and grey carpet. The matted spots on the floor told him where desks and shelves had once been sitting for ages. The entire room was windowless and as the above chandelier flickered to life, he could see the dust particles floating motionlessly in the air. 

She didn’t come in here very often. Kirin suspected she evaded doing her taxes. 

In fact, the only thing in the room without dust was the shelf directly to the left of the door when he walked in. Atop it sat a little wooden box where Amelia flung mail into. He wasn’t interested in that, though. He was looking for her writing set. 

Sitting his coffee down on the shelf, he hobbles over to the desk and carefully wheels back the leather chair to take a seat. A quill and ink were already in front of him but he couldn’t find any paper that wasn’t scribbled on already. 

Kirin hesitates to open the desk drawer—fearing that she’d notice if he disturbed the contents within. But ultimately he steels himself and does so anyway, finding that the drawer was mostly empty. Inside, there was indeed a small stack of blank paper as well as a few tools and spare parts haphazardly thrown inside. He rolls his eyes. They had many things in common but organization was not one of them. 

As he starts to dip the quill in the ink, he falters on his words. 

Amelia wasn’t his friend. But, still, he needed to be careful with how he worded this. After all, he didn’t want Luca to send assassins her way; he just wanted to be taken home. 

Kirin sits and writes a letter that is three pages long. He reads it, then reads it again for good measure. The gist of it all was “Luca, I’m alive. I’m in Tyvia and I’m here with an associate. Be discreet but send help. Find Breanna. We need to reconvene.”

He sifts through more drawers on the desk until he finds an envelope, a stamp set, and a wax seal. 

As he fills out the address, he hears the clock chime from downstairs and knows that, soon, Amelia would be waking up. When he finishes, he tucks the envelope away in his robe and rearranges her things back where he found them. He’d need to find a way to mail it without Amelia knowing, but that problem was for another time. 

Kirin takes one last look at the desk to make sure everything looks fine before going toward the door. But as he reaches for the light switch, he glances down at her mail and his eyes catch on an elaborate stamp. Though he hasn’t the time to investigate it then and there, he makes the split decision to snatch it up and tuck it away alongside his letter to the Duke before flicking the light off and sneaking out of the room. 

\--

Amelia blinks at the ceiling, rolling over onto her side to check the time. She could have kept sleeping for years but decided that work needed to be done today. With her bones aching, she sits up and brushes her tangled hair out of her face. She’d decided last night that it was time to let Kirin back into the lab. 

He’d made an amazing amount of progress already and it was unfair of her to keep coming up with contrived quotas. Jindosh was well enough to go back to work now if he was supervised to an extent. Mostly, she was just worried about him hurting himself. 

That, and she was getting bored of living here. 

\--

Kirin locks his bedroom door behind him and makes his way over to the bathroom. He locks that door too and slides down until he’s sitting on the tiled floor. He pulls out Amelia’s mail and notices the wax seal has been broken. After dumping the contents onto his lap, he unfolds the thick paper and begins to read the typed print. 

\--  
She pulls on her trousers and rolls up the sleeves of her white undershirt. In front of the mirror, she hesitates. Since when is she worried about the way her hair falls around her face—whether or not it flatters her cheekbones? Regardless, she uses hair pins to sweep the black strands back and hold the mess in place. She refuses to think about why it matters at all. 

\--

Out-loud, he mumbles as he reads, “Addressing High Architect Amelia Sokolov, on the 6th day, Month of Darkness . . . Presidium is calling upon you to return to your duties . . . leave of absence has extended past the agreed upon deadline . . . as discussed it is time that you,” he squints down at the words in confusion. “. . . present Kirin Jindosh to the council for examination of the neural inhibitor project. If mister Jindosh is coherent and cognitive, we will continue to fund your neural projects and will additionally . . .” the papers shake in his hands, “. . . grant Kirin Jindosh sanctuary in Dabokva from the rule of her Imperial Majesty Emily Kaldwin.”

\--

As much as she didn’t want to travel again after their last fiasco, she was certainly looking forward to moving back into her home within the citadel. The green house was a decent temporary form of housing. She had purchased it for Kirin to live in after all of this was blown over and had merely stored necessities here. It was an excellent hide-away for the months where she’d planned to steal him from Addermire and kept him within it’s glass walls. They would have been found out in days if she’d stayed at the citadel. It had proved itself to be incredibly secluded—especially when Anton had come to visit. 

But that was neither here nor there. 

She approaches her office door and enters just enough to turn the light on and sift through her mailing box. They’d need the letter of summons if they were to get into the citadel at all. The longer she looks for it, the more she begins to frown. She’d only gotten it a couple days ago; it should have been on top. 

Her confusion comes to a grinding halt as something catches her eye. A cup of coffee sat on the shelf—steam still gently wafting into the air. 

\--

Kirin tucks the papers back into the envelope and sits there for a moment, thinking. He wasn’t sure what to feel. She had essentially brokered a deal to have him pardoned by Tyvia’s leaders—the fucking high judges! They were in on it this whole time? They knew he was alive and hadn’t reported it back to Kaldwin? . . . why? Was Tyvia not in excellent standing with Gristol?

None of that mattered, though. He could contemplate the details later. For now, all he could think about was—

A knock on his bedroom door startled him. He struggles to get to his feet using his cane and calls out “I’m awake! Just give me a moment.”

Amelia stands outside his door, motionless. She’s holding his coffee in her hands. Her face is completely blank. She hasn’t even blinked by the time he comes and opens the door for her.

Kirin goes to greet her, offering her a warm smile in light of the information he’d just learned. He’s pleased to see her, though he doesn’t want to allude why. “Good morn. . .” the words stick in his throat as he notices the coffee in her hands. They look at one another in silence. 

Finally, Amelia whispers, “You left this in my office. By my mail.”

There was no use in lying. So Kirin just nods and says, “Yes.”

“Why were you in there?” She phrases it like a question but Kirin can sense that she knows the answer already. 

“I was looking through your mail.”

He maintains eye contact with her. When he was younger, Sokolov would look at him like this when he’d done something wrong in class or disappointed him in some way. He had been sixteen at the time and felt just as young and ashamed now. But the look in Amelia’s eyes was not disappointment—it was betrayal. 

“Did you take something of mine?” she asks. Again, she already knows the answer and is waiting for him to buckle and lie. 

“I did,” he admits, reaching into his robe and pulling out her letter. He returns it to her, holding it steady in the space between them. She does not take it; she looks at it sadly, like it’s a piece of evidence, and then looks away. 

“Is that all that you did?”

His throat feels dry. This question was a real one; she looked at him almost pleadingly, hoping he would give her the answer she wanted. For a long moment, he contemplates doing the right thing and telling her about his letter to the duke. He pictures arguing with her about it before the two of them reconcile and he throws it into the fire. Then they could continue with their lives together. 

But Kirin has never done the right thing in his life. 

“That’s all, I promise you. I was just curious about your affairs; I wanted to know more about you. That’s all.” He should have stopped there, left it at that. But he needed to kill her suspicion completely so he offered her a small smile and continued, “Is it wrong of me to think about you so often?”

Her eyes widen and her lips part as her face slackens with surprise. And though she furrows her brow and looks at him in confusion, there’s a faint pink glow to her cheeks. He’s taken aback by it; he’d never seen such a soft look on her hardened features. It’s divine. “Of . . . of course not. I should have told you sooner I just . . . well. You know how I am. I just wanted it to be a surprise, I guess. And I suppose it’s my fault that you’ve resorted to digging through my things. Every time you ask, I dodge your questions. Er, it’s fine. Let’s just forget about it.”

He can feel the weight of his letter to the Duke on his chest. It’s nearly suffocating. “Of course.”

“You read it, didn’t you?” she asks, finally taking the letter from him. “So I guess you know that we need to report to the Presidium soon. Are you feeling well enough for another trip into Dabokva?” 

He scoffs. “As long as you stay in the carriage this time, yes.”

Amelia blinks at him before a grin spreads across her face, relaxing every muscle in his body at once. The laughter that comes with it is just as lovely. The lack of sleep is beginning to catch up with him and he leans his weight against the doorway, unwittingly drawing closer to her. The heat of the coffee in her hands warms his face and his weary eyes close, enjoying the sensation. 

All Amelia can do is stare at his tired face, studying the small scars and wrinkles that show his age. His hair is going in all different directions and the stubble on his chin is beginning to show. She raises a hand up and touches his cheek, dragging her palm down the line of his jaw, enjoying the way the stubble feels on her skin. She smiles to herself as her thumb brushes the corner of his lips—softer than she imagined. It’s only then that she feels his gaze on her and realizes where she is and what she’s doing. Her hand twitches then pulls away and she stammers at first, trying to come up with an excuse. But there is none. And they both know it. 

“I’m sorry,” she manages to murmur, “I just woke up—I’m still half asleep I guess.” 

Kirin says nothing. Instead he just looks at her for an achingly long amount of time while trying to decide between what he should do and what he wants to do. In that pause, Amelia collects herself and steps back, putting space between them. “Well, if you’re not going to drink this, I am.” She smirks, taking a sip from the cup of coffee. “You should lay down for a little bit. We’ve got things to do today.”

She’s halfway down the hall by the time Kirin reaches his decision. He sighs, chalks it all up to being sleep deprived and lustful, then closes the door and walks further into his bedroom. In privacy, he pulls out his letter to the duke and stares at it until his eyes lose focus. The fireplace is still burning, if faintly. He walks over to it, letter outstretched, and hesitates. If Amelia discovered this, it could ruin everything. 

But he couldn’t let go of the life he had created in Karnaca. Couldn’t let go of “The Grand Inventor.” 

So he returns to the bed where the giant tome still sits and slides the letter within its many pages. He then places the book back onto the shelf, surrounded by countless others, and goes to bed.


	8. The Coin

8

DUNWALL

15th Day, Month Unknown, 1829

Amelia struggles to keep her eyes open. The afternoon light was nothing but a single thin sliver between the thick curtains. Still, she could see the particles of dust floating motionlessly in the stale air. They were beautiful, she thought, in a very plain way. 

Her head is resting upon her mother’s lap. A thin, freckled hand pets Amelia’s dark hair lovingly. She hums a song that the two of them know by heart. The sound is so familiar and soothing. Amelia, at twelve years old, has never felt so safe in her life. 

She struggles to turn her head. She’s so weak. They both were. They’d been weak for so long. 

With great effort, she finally can look up and see her mother’s face—

\--it’s nothing like it should be. A bunch of other people’s features patched together to resemble something . . . something forgotten. 

\--

DABOKVA

10th Day, Month of Darkness, 1852

Amelia sits upright, startled awake by a rock in the road. The carriage rattles and next to her, Kirin has his nose in the journal she bought him. He looks up only for a second to say, “You were snoring.”

“I do that sometimes,” she mumbles. She’d fallen asleep against the carriage window and now her neck was screaming at her. “Where are we?”

“How should I know?” He sounds annoyed but Amelia has learned that that is his normal tone of voice. “Definitely in a better part of town than we were last time around. There’s hardly any shit in the street.”

Amelia pulls back the thin curtain against the window and squints against the harsh, cold light. After her eyes have adjusted, she sees they are in the upper streets of the city. The apartment buildings are much taller and much nicer. Electric carriage rails are buzzing and there isn’t a begger to be seen. They exist here as they do all over the city; but they aren’t safe on these streets like they are in the lower sects. 

Closer and closer to the People’s Chamber. She had written ahead of time to request that the Brigadiers stay out of all of this. But introducing them to Jindosh was inevitable at this point. Annoying, but inevitable. Besides, he was getting closer to her wasn’t he? She risks a glance in his direction. His brow if furrowed in deep concentration. 

“I thought you would be full of questions right now.” Amelia straightens her back, throwing a leg over her knee. Kirin does not look up from his notes but a single eyebrow raises. 

“What made you think that?” He mutters, aloof. “I can control my curiosity, you know. Besides. I think it will be far more rewarding to watch things unravel on their own once we get there, don’t you?”

Actually, that’s what she was afraid of. She liked things to go as planned and this entire trip was sporadic and unchartered. It was her own fault; if she hadn’t ignored their letters of summons for so long, this journey would not have been as rushed. There was nothing she could do now but swallow the uneasy feeling rising in her stomach and watch the scenery go by. 

Kirin, sensing the anxiety coming from his usually confident companion, attempts to ease her concerns. “Really, I can’t wait to get this over with. Ever since you told me I’d be getting the green house to myself after this is all said and done, I’ve been dizzy with anticipation.”

Amelia scoffs weakly. “You can’t get me out of your hair that easily. I’m not leaving the house until I know you’ll be alright without me there.”

He tenses up in brief surprise, his face warming up. He shakes his head and frowns down at his barely legible handwriting. “I’m about as good as I’m going to get. And I’m sure you have more important work to be doing than babysitting me. I’ll hire some servants if that’ll make you feel better.”

“Okay, well, several things—One, you don’t have any money of your own, so I don’t know how you plan on doing that. Two, the inhibitor is a fairly new piece of technology and we don’t know how it works yet; you could very well make a complete recovery _and then some_. And three, perhaps most importantly, have you forgotten that I need you to complete the inhibitor project? I’m not going anywhere until the High Judges approve my work and that, my Grand Inventor, is going to take some time.”

Kirin rolls his eyes and grimaces at her. “Surely you have other test subjects that will suffice?”

“I do,” she groans. The Brigadiers, in fact. “But none of them are like you.”

“How so?” a smile curls at the corners of his mouth. Oh how he loved being flattered. 

The younger woman gives him a knowing smirk. “Careful now. All that hot air rushing to your massive head might cause the inhibitor to misfire.”

\--

The carriage pulls to a slippery stop in front of one of the largest buildings Jindosh had ever seen in his life. He’d been here once before but his memory had forgotten the sheer size of it. It nearly blocked out the sun with its looming domed towers, corbel arches, and lovingly painted tiles. Snow had been swept away from the pristine stone courtyard which was, in and of itself, incredibly expansive. 

Kirin was beginning to realize that where Karnaca, Gristol, and Morely’s palaces and capital buildings were personal homes to respective rulers, Tyvia’s were places of government where the occupants did not throw parties or spend idle time. This was a place where business was done first and foremost. 

“Come on,” Amelia pauses on the narrow steps leading up to the giant set of elaborate doors. “They’re expecting us.”

She turns and continues up the stairs without him. He watches her go for a moment, suddenly unsure of himself. After all, this was his first official appearance since Emily Kaldwin had performed shock therapy upon him. But Amelia was expecting him to follow her, so he did. 

If they were being ‘expected,’ Kirin certainly couldn’t tell. A single servant waited for them at the doors, dressed thickly in dark satins and wools. There was no telling how long he’d been standing there, waiting for their arrival. He bowed low to them without a word then knocked his gloved fist against the door which began to open soundlessly. The main hall of the palace was decorated with dark gray walls of granite. When he stepped, Kirin could see flecks of gold shimmer amongst the darkness. Huge statues of bronze Men were lined against these walls, their arms outstretched and holding out equally ginormous lanterns which bathed the room in a dull light. One’s eyes are inevitably drawn to the circular table at the center of the chamber where sixteen council members sat, waiting. 

The only thing keeping Kirin’s nerves from completely running amuck is that fact that just beyond this table, at the back of the chamber, the seats of the High Judges are empty.   
No words are spoken as the High Architect and Grand Inventor are led toward the table of councilmen. The servant is a step ahead of them and, as they approach the circle, he lifts up a panel in the table and gestures for the inventors to step through and stand in the center where they can be observed at all angles. 

Amelia’s back is straight, her head is held high, and a calm smile graces her lips. Kirin tries to remember how that confidence felt not too long ago and mimics it to the best of his ability. He regrets not smoking like a chimney on the way up here; it might have soothed him.

For a long pause, no one speaks. The council waits until the servant completely exits the room which takes a second or so given how long the great hall is. As his footsteps against the carpet fade away, Kirin sneaks glances at the council members. As pale as he always imagined them. 

Finally the silence is broken as one of the older men coughs into his hand and another younger woman sighs, exasperated. 

“Amelia Sokolov,” she starts, folding her hands atop the table. “Did you not receive the previous three letters of summons sent to your preferred address?”

Sokolov puts on an eerily polite smile. “I did, yes.”

The councilwoman unclasps her hands and gestures vaguely, her face contorting as if to say ‘….and?’

Amelia shrugs. She _shrugs_. 

“I ignored them. I apologize. I’ve been very busy, you see.”

The councilwoman raises a hand to her temple and goes silent. Another council member, a gentleman, exclaims in fury, “Ignoring a summoning from the High Judges results in imprisonment without a trial! Are you prepared to face the consequences of your own negligence?”

If it weren’t for the inhibitor, a cold sweat would be forming on the back of Kirin’s neck. 

“Well,” Amelia says cooly, “I thought it would be better not to waste the council’s time. If I had brought Mr. Jindosh here after the first letter of summons, he would have still been unconscious.”

“And after the second?”

“He would have just woken up. So I can assure you, I spared all of your nerves.”

Kirin makes a sour face against his better judgement and shifts stiffly from foot to foot. Some partner she turned out to be. 

“Be that as it may,” a different councilwoman chimes in, “You are to report to the Presidium immediately upon summoning. In the future, I hope that this won’t happen again Sokolov.”

Jindosh narrows his eyes in confusion. The air in the room had shifted. The council members who were irritated before were starting to calm themselves down and resort to muttering under their breath instead. Amelia puts her hands behind her back and holds them there casually, sneaking a wink at Kirin over her shoulder. 

She then says, “I hope the council can forgive my tardiness. But I have come with wonderful news of progress.” Here, she gestures to Kirin with a smile on her face. All eyes land upon the Serkonan. “Grand Inventor of Serkonos, Kirin Jindosh!”

If some sort of fanfare was supposed to occur at this moment, it was nowhere to be seen. The council regarded him with hard, scrutinizing stares so intense that he felt akin to a lab rat. And maybe that’s what he was to them. But was that how Amelia saw him too?

Not knowing where to look and desperate for an oasis from the heat of their eyes, Kirin looks to his partner. Her face is so familiar to him now. Sharp and confident and brilliant. Many times in the last several weeks he had looked upon that face and found that she believed in him more than anyone had. He was an experiment to her, yes, but he knew he was worth more to her than that. 

It is after this revelation that he realizes they are waiting for him to speak—to prove the inhibitor’s success. Now, it was Amelia who needed him and not the other way around. The least he could do was put on a show. So he remembers who he used to be. 

“Well, that wasn’t much of an introduction Sokoklov but thank you for the effort.” He takes a step forward and bows with a flourish. “I must say, it is an honor to stand before the Presidium. I’ve also recently had the pleasure of meeting the Empress herself. Now all that’s left is to stumble across the King and Queen of Morley, I suppose.”

Their expressions warp to ones of shock, amazement, and even excitement as he speaks. One of the councilmen claps his hands together in a sporadic moment of awe. “I’ll be damned!” 

“The honor is ours, Mr. Jindosh.” The first councilwoman replies, placing a hand to her chin in contemplation. “Sokolov, this is your greatest achievement yet.”

“Thank you, yes.” Amelia chirps, tilting her chin up. Kirin smirks as he watches her through the corners of his eyes. He’d have to tease her for her hubris later. “I think it was well worth the wait, don’t you?”

“Oh yes,” muses a councilman with wispy blonde hair, quiet up to this point. “We were impressed by the work you’d done on the Brigadiers. But this? This is astonishing. You said he was completely unresponsive at the beginning?”

Kirin’s confidence falters, as does his smile. 

“Almost completely,” Amelia responds casually. “As I reported before, due to the electroshock therapy, he had incredible cerebral damage that distorted his memory and cognitive functions. He could hardly remember who he was or what had happened to him. I read witness statements from his former serving staff that said he experienced an entire personality change. The damage was catastrophic.”

She’s telling this story—the story of his greatest failure and humiliation—like it’s nothing. Like it wasn’t something he still had nightmares about. Like it was something he wouldn’t mind sharing with the world. His hands turn to fists at his sides but he cannot interrupt her. Not now, not in front of the Presidium. 

So she continues, “As you remember from my reports—,” and here the council opens folders that are set out in front of them, to Kirin’s dismay, “—during the first month, he was completely unconscious. The inhibitor was busy manipulating his mind into creating new cells to replace the damaged ones, sending small doses of electricity to his brain at first, then more over time. Month two—,” the council flipped a page, “—you can see that he regained consciousness. At first, I worried the project was a failure. You see, he couldn’t use his motor skills or remember what had happened to him.”

A councilmen interrupts, “Which instance of consciousness are you referring to?”

Kirin’s eyes widen. He looks over at Amelia, stunned. She is quiet for a moment, her lips pressed into a thin line. Eventually she says, “The fourth time.”

“Fourth time?” Jindosh echoes, his resolve broken. “What the hell do you mean the fourth time I regained consciousness?”

“Mr. Jindosh, I ask that you wait your turn,” says the first councilwoman, looking annoyed. “Sokolov, continue with your report—,”

Amelia turns halfway to face him but she does not meet his gaze, looking across the room into nothingness. “Yes, you regained consciousness several times. Four times, to be exact. But you always relapsed within twenty-four hours and lost recollection all over again.”

“ _What—_ ,” he steps toward her. To do what, he isn’t sure. Too many thoughts are going through his mind. Why wouldn’t she tell him that? He had a theory as to why but wanted to hear her say it. “Four times? How many more times would you have tried?”

“Both of you, that is enough—”

Amelia turns to him completely, her eyes closed for composure. When she opens them, they are devoid of the warmth and comfort he had seen in them before. “As many times as it took. You know how it is.”

“That’s not true,” he hisses, stepping into her personal space. They are roughly the same height, but he seems taller all of a sudden. “How many more times were you going to try it? And then what?”

“Quiet! You are in the presence of the Presidium!” Roars the councilwoman, standing from her seat and slamming her open palms onto the table. 

Amelia holds her gaze on him. He doesn’t flinch at the rage in the councilwoman’s voice or her words. He waits until Amelia finally says, flatly, “If the experiment continued to fail, I was going to kill you. It’s what you wanted. You asked me to.”

The chamber is silent. 

He glares down at her. 

Her jaw is clenched tightly. After a beat, she says more, “I knew I could make it work. But I had a deadline to meet and eventually I would have had to find another suitable candidate. Fortunately, it did work. And now here we are. Would you have had me do it any other way? Would you rather I had given up after the first failed attempt?”

“Sokolov,” the council woman says. Her tone is deadly. Amelia finally looks away from Jindosh and toward her audience, putting on her smile. “Do you want the funding or not?”

 _Ah, there it was,_ he thought, _the motivation behind it all._

Sokolov hesitates for a moment, her lips a thin and empty smile as she thinks. Then, finally, she says, “Yes. Of course. Forgive me for that little interruption. Allow me to resume where I left off.”

Kirin stands motionless next to her as she continues to tell the story of his recovery. He keeps his mouth shut for the rest of the meeting and, when it’s over and the council takes a recess to discuss matters in private, he is quiet while a servant escorts the two of them to a waiting room. Amelia does not seem at all deterred by the confrontation. She sits down on one of the plush white couches in the scarlet colored waiting area and crosses a leg over the other. 

Once she is properly situated and sees that Kirin has taken a spot standing by the window, facing away from her, she says, “Are we going to talk about what just happened?”

“What more is there to discuss?” He mutters, watching his breath fog up the glass. “It was enlightening enough for me.”

“Kirin,” she rubs at her temple and sighs. “I didn’t plan on telling you any of that. I sent those first few reports before you completely regained consciousness. I didn’t know they’d be on the table for discussion today.”

“Oh, how careless of you.” He leans on his cane, shifting his weight. Outside, a light snow has begun to fall. “If you’d been a little smarter about it, you could have continued to falsely build up my trust.”

She grits her teeth then relaxes, trying to remain calm. “At what point was I supposed to bring up the fact that I planned on killing you if the neural project failed? Right as you woke up? A week later, when you were still barely able to trust me? A month later when it didn’t even matter anymore and the neural inhibitor was working fine?”

Kirin throws her a look over his shoulder and spits, “Didn’t even matter anymore? You wanted me to trust you but now I know that I shouldn’t have! That I’m nothing more than a lab rat to you! How would you have done it, Amelia? How would you have put me out of my misery?”

“Oh, stop!” She throws her head back in exasperation. “As if you wouldn’t have done the same thing in my position! As if you haven’t done far worse things to your own ‘lab rats!’ There were times when you regained consciousness in small segments wherein you _begged_ me to kill you. And finally, I promised you I would. But I don’t think I could have gone through with it—,”

He scoffs harshly, “Oh! Well, isn’t that a sweet sentiment in retrospect! You don’t think you would have gone through with it? I believe you, especially after that display you put on in front of those bureaucrats!”

She settles back into her seat, running a hand through her hair. “What the fuck are you talking about now?”

He throws his arms out, his face contorting with unkept and growing anger. “You humiliated me in there! You told them about every little detail of my recovery—something you knew was an embarrassment to me. And you did it without warning me or—or asking me if it was alright—or—,”

He has to stop himself and take a deep breath. It had been a long time since he’d gotten so worked up and emotional. A tickle burned at the back of his throat and he swallowed it hard, deciding instead to pour all of his energy into anger. 

Amelia’s expression has softened. She looks at him now with a semblance of guilt. “. . . I didn’t know that would bother you. I have a hard time understanding when someone is . . . well. I’m not the best at reading a room. You’re right, I should have told you upfront that I’d been sending reports instead of just assuming you had pieced that together. I’m sorry.”

A quiet settles over the room. He presses his lips into a thin line, his eyebrows furrowed, and he stares at her tired and semi-apologetic face. 

She shakes her head at him then looks down at her mechanical palm, glowing blue on her lap. “I couldn’t have killed you, Kirin. I told myself after the first failed attempt that I needed to respect your request. And then . . . well. There were four failed attempts, in the end. I’m sure there would have been many more. You were—you are—one of my greatest inspirations. I didn’t want to fail you. And I also didn’t want you to live that way forever. I’m sorry I spent so long trying to decide the right thing to do. But if the mistakes I made cost me your trust but also lead to you standing here, in the midst of an astounding recovery? Then it was worth it.” 

He settles his weight back onto the cane. He can feel his legs shaking from too much exertion. “Yes, well. You succeeded. And you’ll likely get the funding you need as well. Congratulations.” 

“Oh, I could give a shit about the funding.” Amelia chuckles to herself, sounding weary. “But thank you. I understand if you want to return to the greenhouse alone. If you can’t trust me—and I don’t see how you could now—then our partnership is doomed to fail.”

He looks back out the window, seeing that thin layer of snow has started to form on the ground. Already, the courtyard is bustling with servants who are spreading salt on the stone. 

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

\--

On the outskirts of Dabokva, as the snow begins to fall, a carriage rolls to a gentle stop at the stables. The boy tending to the horses comes around to help the driver with his. Four gentlemen step out of the carriage and the young lad is momentarily captivated by their colorful clothing. They were dressed as though they had never felt a cool breeze in their lives but had heard one described and had dressed themselves based upon their own assumptions. Yes, they were wearing many layers but the cloth consisted of different satins, sheer and thin, and they weren’t wearing any head gear to speak of. Their boots, too, were flat and thin on the bottoms and would likely result in slipping and soaking throughout the day. 

The boy takes it upon himself to say, “Sirs, pardon me for asking, but is this your first visit to Tyvia?”

The men exchange looks amongst one another then look back to the boy wordlessly. The lad continues, “You’ll need warmer clothes and better gear. Especially this time of year. I can show you to the marketplace, if you’d like.”

One of the men chuckles which leads to all four of them sharing a short laugh. The man bends down onto one knee and holds up a gold Serkonan coin. He says, “You seem like a helpful young man. Tell you what, I’ll give you this gold piece if you can answer a question of mine.”

The boy, craving not only the gold itself but the allure of rare foreign currency, nods in a trance. Soon, the gold coin in front of his face disappears and in its place, the man is holding up a silver graph photo. 

“Have you seen this man?”

The silvergraph is of a thin, tall man with a pencil moustache and an arrogant smirk. The boy stares hard at the photo, desperately wanting the gold. But he is honest and says, “No, sir. I’m sorry.”

The man glances over his shoulder at his comrades who remain motionless. When he turns back, he has a warm smile on his dark features. “That’s alright, boy. Thank you for being honest. Now, my next question is a trickier one. I don’t have a silvergraph, you see? All I have is a name.”

He holds the coin back up in front of the boy’s face and the child eagerly awaits the next words. 

“Have you heard of a woman named Amelia Sokolov?”

The boy grins from ear to ear. Little did the man know that this question wasn’t tricky at all! Everyone in Dabokva knew that name. But the gold coin was his and his alone.


	9. The Brigadiers

9

The Presidium

_10th Day, Month of Darkness_

After Amelia had finished her business with the council, alone, she had returned to the waiting room to ask Kirin if he would like to go home without her. 

“They want me to stay longer than expected. I have to play catch-up I suppose.” She had poured herself a glass of something strong and was now sipping it from a crystal glass in the waiting room. Sokolov was also standing—almost anxiously—with one hand in her pocket and the other fiddling with the glass. He hardly registers her words; too focused on how the mechanical hand can hold the fragile glass so gently. “You can head back without me, I’m sure you don’t want to follow me around while I do clerical work.” Then, clearing her throat, she added, “And . . . well. I’m sure you’d like to take some time to think.”

He sits quietly, watching her down the rest of the drink in one impressive swig. Tyvians knew how to drink the stout stuff apparently. 

“Do you _want_ me to go home?” He counters, trying not to sound aggressive. There was nothing he wanted more than to argue with her—without revealing himself, obviously—but Kirin knew a certain level of restraint. Especially when sitting in such a posh, elegant room in a foreign isle’s capital building.

“No,” she replies, too curt. He can see her mentally kick herself for this. Sokolov makes a graceful recovery, “Of course not. I enjoy your company more than most. You know that. It’s just that I have a feeling like we’re going to fight and I don’t—,”

“You don’t want to embarrass yourself in front of your employers, I understand.” Kirin is controlling his anger excellently but, even still, there is a bite of venom in each word. He’s outraged, yes, but it’s more than that. It’s something dangerous that he won’t acknowledge—so he will call it rage.

“Kirin,” she says softly, almost a whisper. And now, for whatever reason, he can’t look at her. How annoying—it was so much easier to deal with her when she was just as cold and blunt and angry as he was. He never knew how to handle her tender tone or the gentle hand that now fell upon his shoulder. Even as she kneels down in front of him he can’t look at her. Sokolov’s hand slides down his arm until it gets to his hand which rests upon his lap. There, she hesitates, unsure if she is allowed to truly touch him yet, and in the end she retreats and places the hand upon the armrest instead. “What you discovered earlier is true. I can’t change that. All I can do is assure you that I’d never consider something like that again.” There is a long pause as she stares at him expectantly. In the end, she asks, “Do you need me to say it?”

His resolve is cracking. The anger is dissolving into something much less manageable—hurt. Sadness. Shock. 

She doesn’t wait for him to respond. Instead, she pushes her worries aside and takes his hand into her own, “You’re very important to me. I consider you a dear friend, not just a business partner. You’re more valuable to me than anyone in that council room—than _anyone_ —do you understand?”

Kirin rolls his eyes but it is little more than a pretense. Inwardly, he’s experiencing all manner of strange and unexpected things. 

Up until this point, Kirin had always equated Amelia with Anton. When he looked at her, he thought of Anton. When she spoke, he would think ‘ha, that’s something Anton would have said.’ Every expression upon her pale, Tyvian face echoed similarities with her father that were undeniable. Anton had been a close friend of Kirin’s long ago—someone he admired and even foolishly loved. But Anton, who had been much older and jaded, had never really cared for Kirin. If he had, then the young Serkonan would never have been expelled from the Academy in the first place. 

That was the difference—one of many—between Amelia and Anton. She genuinely seemed to care for him. 

And, frankly, it terrified him a bit. But it also made him inexplicably pleased. 

Amelia carefully lets go of his hand and stands up from her kneeling position. “You don’t have to forgive me. But I do need you to trust me.”

He rotates his cane in steady circles, wearing a divot into the thick pink carpet. He looks up at her, finally, relaxes his tense posture. “Very well. But I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything.” 

He gestures at her with the cane. “You’re going to tell me everything. All of it. If we’re equals and you want my trust then you need to do something to deserve it.”

Her jaw tightens. Kirin suspected, and had for some time now, that her little game of giving him tidbits of information at a time was a tactic. Ever since he’d woken up in a haze in her laboratory and she’d revealed too much to him at once, she’d been far more careful going forward. Perhaps she was worried too much information would cause him to relapse again. And, more than that, maybe she had secrets that might displease him. The later seemed true enough by the look on her face.

“I’m serious,” he continues, resting his chin on an open palm. “I enjoyed these little games at first but I’ve grown tired of them. I’m not bound to you anymore—I am well enough to leave if I desire. And I’ll do that if you don’t compromise.”

She glances up at the elaborate burgundy wallpaper as if she expected to see an answer in the ugly swirling designs. But eventually she conceded, saying, “That’s only fair. Can you wait until we get home?”

This was two questions disguised as one. Of course the other was, _“Am I coming home with you?”_

“Yes.”

There’s a moment of silence where he studies her uneasiness—how she swallows nervously and how her green eyes flicker here and there across the room. Her mechanical hand, still holding the glass, is as steady as ever but her hand of flesh and bone trembles ever so slightly at her side. So rarely does she exhibit any sort of vulnerability. Even when she was surrounded by a pack of wild Tyvian wolves she looked more confident than she does now. 

“I—,” She starts to say, “Kirin I don’t—,”

It is at this moment that the double doors to the waiting room fling open and in steps a group of four. 

Kirin’s eyes surf over them as the initial shock subsides. But Amelia recognizes them instantaneously, almost prophetically, and her face contorts with annoyance. 

“Damn the Outsider,” She curses, turning so sharply that her glasses glint blindingly from chandelier above. “Does anything go as planned nowadays?”

Of the four of them, two were women, one was a man, and the other appeared androgynous. The woman standing front and center had dark orange hair contained in a tendril bun at the back of her head, just under a broadcloth helmet. She walked with a sort of sway with both hands clasped in front of her as she surveyed the room. She also walked with the lightest of steps given that both of her legs were mechanical. 

Almost all of them had their own missing appendages replaced with machinery. The man—who was a monstrosity in both size and stature—had two equally ginormous metal arms that looked completely different in design than Amelia’s yet still showed her influence. He took up the rear of the group but it did not diminish his presence in the slightest. He towered over his companions. 

The other two were considerably less bold. The other woman seemed younger than the rest of them, maybe in her early twenties. If he had to guess, Kirin would say she hailed from the Wei-Ghon or Samara regions of Tyvia given the epicanthic folds of her eyes and the round tip of her nose. She was missing one arm and the bottom of her jaw. It was replaced with a square-looking piece of metal attached with hinges. And the person next to her seemed not to be missing anything at all. They were skinny and dangerously pale. But it was hard to tell underneath the thick Tyvian military uniforms and the large red goggles they wore. 

All of them were soldiers of some sort and all of them were looking at Kirin. 

Amelia steps between them gesturing lazily with her metal arm. “What? You all couldn’t wait another month or two? Had to make a scene, didn’t you Elvira?”

Elvira, who was obviously the red-headed woman, let out a deep laugh. It was dry, like she’d smoked her whole life. She retorts in the thickest Tyvian accent he’s heard yet, “We got wind that you’d finally come out of the woods. Can you blame us for being inquisitive? Isn’t that something you normally encourage?”

A smirk pulls at Amelia’s face but it is not one Kirin has seen before. There’s malice behind it. “Oh I see. You wanted to meet him.”

The man steps forward—well, no. He begins to walk forward and pushes everyone out of his way as he goes. Only Elvira does not budge as he comes to stand directly behind her while the other two wordlessly move aside. 

“This is him?” He asks, “This broken little man is the one?”

Amelia glances over at Kirin briefly. 

“Yes, Oleg. Why do you sound so shocked? I only work with ‘broken’ people.” Here, she holds a hand up to meet Kirin’s offended glare and adds, “His words not mine, dear. You’ll have to excuse them all. They’re better than normal people now and think they can act however they please.”

Elvira shakes her head with a grin and starts walking toward a chair. Her leg designs are completely unlike how Amelia makes arms. Whereas the arms are built to be powerful and sturdy, containing all sorts of tricks and weaponry, the legs were so simple and lightweight. Each were built thick at the thigh to hold them and account for weight and balance but at the knee, they turned into thin metal rods connected to curved, flat metal pieces. The rods went down to the ground, ending with a little rubber stopper, and substituted for an ankle. It pierced the curved piece at the mid-calf and then again at the heel where it kept protruding forward until it, too, ended with a little rubber stopper, acting as the pad of the foot. When she walked, the curved piece bent to redistribute the power of the step and it made her so weightless she seemed to float across the room. She sits with just as much ease and throws one metal leg over the other with a loud ‘ting!’

“So are you back officially?” Asks the other woman. She glides around Oleg’s huge form to be heard. “Are we proceeding as planned?”

“Not yet, no,” Amelia responds, running a hand through her hair until some strands fall loose from her ponytail. “But we made a good impression today with the council. I suspect they’ll soon accept my proposal and then we’ll be in the clear. Until then, I’m warning you, be on your best behavior. The last thing I need to see is a newspaper on my doorstep with the four of you on the front page.”

At this point, Jindosh isn’t surprised to learn that Amelia has even more secrets. He reclines onto one arm and follows along, trying to piece it together before she inevitably reveals it to him later. 

“Relax,” Elvira chimes, “We’ve been sitting on our hands for this long, we can keep it up for a while longer. But it is getting awfully boring. When we were told we’d get to be secret police, I was pretty enthusiastic! Without the recognition and praise, though, I’m getting a bit cynical.”

Under her breath, Amelia mutters, “As if you haven’t always been like that,” and pours herself another glass. After a decent sip, she says, “The alternative is taking away your Enhancers and putting you all back in jail, so.”

Oleg scoffs and bits of spit fly through the air. Kirin stares in disgust. “They can try it.”

“ _They_ is _me_ , you idiot,” Amelia hisses. She’s clearly creeping past the point of polite conversation. “And you all know how easy that would be for me. Just the click of a button. Don’t let this all get to your heads—your power is borrowed.”

Oleg clenches his jaw and glares hard at the wall beyond in an attempt to calm himself. The other two comrades fall back behind him. But Elvira switches her legs and folds two gloved hands over the shiny iron kneecap and says flatly, “Relax. We know what we’re doing. You seem so stressed, Millie. Playing caretaker for this Serkonan has obviously taken a lot out of you. You’re acting strange.”

“Thank you for your touching concern,” Amelia feigns a tight smile. “Truly. But I don’t want it. If I’m acting stressed it’s because my Brigadiers have arrived unannounced on a day where they knew I’d be speaking with the most important men and women of our country just to complain about how dreadfully boring their biologically enhanced lives have been in comparison to a frozen prison camp in the middle of the wastes.”

Elvira stares calmly, almost amused, before shifting her gray gaze over to Kirin. Her face is covered in very light scars, something Jindosh has only just had the opportunity to notice. She was a fighter, a survivor, without question. 

“What has she been doing to you, then? Cut off any of your parts yet?”

“None that I’m aware of,” Jindosh retorts dryly. “Though I suppose they’re all in relative working order so I don’t see why she would.”

The woman throws her head back to laugh, filling the room with a sort of confusing tension. When she’s finished, her cheeks are flushed pink. “That’s never stopped her before.”

“Enough,” Sokolov barks, “You can’t scare him, Elvira. He’s seen and done far worse than I ever did to you.”

“Oh, is that so?” The woman abruptly leans forward in her chair and for the first time all evening Kirin recognizes the undertones of madness in her eyes. “Well aren’t you two just _perfect_ for each other?”

“Ma’am?”

Only now does everyone notice the servant who has slipped into the room. How long he had been there was anyone’s guess but judging by his nervous demeanor, he’d heard enough to make him anxious. And how could he not be while staring at five people with—what had she officially called them earlier?—Enhancers? 

Sokolov stands from her chair and in an instant she’s next to Kirin with her arm offered out to him. It had been a long while since she’d escorted him arm-in-arm and he certainly didn’t physically need her there now that he had the cane. He got the distinct feeling, however, that this gesture was a statement to the brigadiers more than anything else. 

“We’re coming,” Sokolov says breaking eye contact with Elvira. Before the two of them follow the servant out of the room, Amelia turns her chin over her shoulder to say, “Don’t disappoint me.” 

Then they step out into the hall corridor. 

Amelia instantly turns on the servant, “Who the hell let them in here?”

The poor gentleman shrinks, glancing to Kirin for assistance. But one look at Kirin’s unempathetic glare dashes those hopes. He says, “I’m terribly sorry ma’am. But . . . what were we to do?” Then, much much quieter, “It’s not as though . . . we can physically stop them—,”

“Outsider’s crooked cock,” Amelia is a little tipsy and egregiously annoyed despite it being so early in the day. Being in your mid-thirties, apparently, was taxing in and of itself. She certainly felt exhausted—something that Elvira picked up on. Because _of course_ she did. “Nevermind. It doesn’t matter. Just give fair warning in the future. Even if that means you have to sprint ahead of them.”

While the servant nods and spills out apologies, Amelia turns heel with Kirin still on her arm and heads toward the exit. He’s being pulled by her almost like he’s not even there.  
And when he plants his feet—and more prominently the cane—into the carpet to halt them, she nearly takes his arm off. 

She looks a little shocked, having been pulled out of deep thought. “What is it?” 

“You were dragging me,” he rubs absently at his bruised arm. “She was right about you. You seem stressed.”

Her expression stiffens and she silently turns around to continue down the hall. “A certain amount of stress is good for you. Elvira was just trying to get a rise out of me.”

“She succeeded, I should say.” Kirin trails behind her, struggling to match her long strides. “I thought you could only get that angry with _me_.”

“I don’t get angry with you, Kirin,” she takes her coat from one of the servants at the door and pulls it on, struggling to find the arm holes. “Not like that.”

“That’s debatable. But you did look ready to snap her in half near the end of that conversation.” He too takes his coat from one of the maids and effortlessly shrugs it on. Amelia is still having trouble getting her Enhancer through the sleeve. 

“Of course I was,” she grunts. “She was threatening you.”

“Was she?” Jindosh muses, placing a hand on her shoulder. She stops her flailing around, defeated, as he pulls the sleeve out for her. “I’ve heard better threats in my day. For instance, when you held a knife to my throat and threatened to cut my fingers off.”

She makes a humming sound, suddenly looking very guilty. He can see that today has taken quite a toll on her; her hair is falling around her face and her eyes are red and dark with deep bags under them. Even her movement is stiff and clumsy. 

Well, it serves her right for being so constantly secretive. Holding back information was bound to lead to a day like this. A smile tugs at his lips and he places an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into him for once. “Come, let’s go home. You look dreadful. Worse than usual.”

“Oh, wow, thanks.” Despite the annoyance in her tone, she lies her head on his shoulder and allows him to guide her outside into the blistering cold. “I have a lot of explaining to do when we get back, don’t I?”

“Yes,” he considers, his voice soft. “But it can wait until tomorrow morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! I just want to take a moment to acknowledge that the way Amelia and other characters treat disabilities is obviously wrong and ignorant at times. Amelia is a bad person and bad people are often wrong. Dishonored is a series full of complex characters who do some pretty horrible things to each other. Amelia is a creation grounded in this universe. Going forward, I just want to warn those of you who might be triggered by some of this ableism because it's likely going to reoccur to be on-brand. Please take care of yourselves and don't continue reading if the material makes you sad or uneasy! Much love!


	10. The Void

Ch. 10

THE CITADEL, TYVIA

10th Day, Month of Darkness

“I’ll try to be quick,” Amelia says, struggling to slip a leather glove over the fingers of her Enhancer. “Some paperwork was sent to my apartment here rather than the greenhouse and I need to fill it out as soon as possible. I’ll give it to Carlton to deliver then we can be on our way.”

Jindosh, who so rarely found himself out of focus, jumped at her words. He’d been staring out the carriage window thinking until his mind started to blur and buzz. He hadn’t even realized it was happening. At some point, he’d slumped over and his forehead had pressed to the cold glass. Everything felt a bit numb.

“I’m sor—what?” He raises a hand to his temple. It was like he’d been holding his breath too long; his pulse made his head swim.

“Are you alright?” A hand touches his shoulder. “Look at me. Hey, look at me Kirin.”

Her voice shifted as she spoke. Sounding far too close and then very far away, almost like he was hearing her from another room. He glances up at her face—wait, ‘up’? When had she reclined him on the seat?

“I’m fine,” he says. The sound of his own voice started to ground him again. “Stop your fretting. I haven’t eaten, that’s all.”

Amelia places a thumb under one of his eyes, pulling down at the skin to better see his pupils. Her brow furrows and her lips begin to shrink into a thin line. She continues to prod at him, feeling his pulse and taking his temperature with the soft part of her wrist, until Kirin carefully swats her hands away. “Honestly,” he grunts, “There are nobles who treat prized porcelain with less caution. I am not a feeble old man.”

Her eyes squint a bit and she begins to back away. Her hands flinch, wanting to continue investigating, but she finally places them limply on her lap. “I’m right to be worried here. I think your inhibitor is starting to lose its charge.”

“That’s—and I’m just making an educated guess—that’s not very good is it?” He pulls himself up from his reclined position and shakes his head to clear his thoughts. “What do you suggest we do about it?”

“Well, mine has lost its charge before.” Amelia absently reaches up and touches the blue glow on the back of her neck. “They’re crystals of condensed and hardened whale oil that put off a significant amount of energy allowing them to last longer than whale oil in its natural state. But nothing lasts forever. They can hold their charge for several weeks, sometimes months depending on the quality of the whale oil they were made from. Mine, for instance, is about four months old and I’ve not had to replace it yet. I know when I need to exchange it when cognitive thoughts are . . . dull and disjointed. It’s especially dangerous for _my_ inhibitor to run out of charge—it’s the only thing keeping my Enhancer from frying my nerves and sending me into a state of paralyzing shock. After all, that’s what it was made to do.”

“The enhancer is directly linked to . . . your nervous system?” He mumbles, completely taken aback. “That’s ingenious. And foolish, I must say. What would happen to you if the inhibitor ran out of charge and you were alone? Or if it were to be damaged?”

She laughs to herself a bit, looking out the carriage window to avoid eye contact. After a second, she mutters, “I’d go catatonic. Would likely slip into a coma.”

“Cata— _Catatonic?!”_ Jindosh rasps, his mouth agape. He throws his hands into the air, completely flabbergasted. “I’ll admit, Sokolov, that your invention is groundbreaking for it’s time! I might even consider it on par with the clockworks— _though it is admittedly heavily inspired and a bit derivative as you’ve said yourself_ —,”

“Hey—!”

“—but there is such a thing as a risk/reward mentality when we make such strides! I understand giving other people these enhancements and testing it out on them first but—,”

“Remind me, which one of us created a machine that’s sole purpose is to permanently damage someone’s mind?” She leans forward, eyes narrowed, pointing a finger at him.

He leans back, avoiding it. “Alright, hold on now—,”

“Hmm, and which one of us left it out in the open—,”

“—I won’t sit here and—,”

“—in the middle of a coup—,”

“—be slenderized and accused—,”

“—that they were a key part of?”

“You’ve made your point.” He turns his nose up and gracefully and pretends not to see her victoriously slouch back into her seat. “But you can understand my concern.”

“Oh, no, I find the concern to be quite touching really.” She drawls, grinning wickedly. Kirin feels his face heat up despite the cold outside the carriage walls. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re starting to really care about me.”

“A bold hypothesis, I must say,” Jindosh hisses, his chest tight for whatever reason. “But an incorrect one nonetheless.”

The carriage finally arrives at Sokolov’s apartment in the citadel. It is three stories, with the bottom floor being a well-to-do book shop bustling with people this time of the day. Amelia does not lead them into the store. Instead, she navigates off to the side where there is another entrance that she unlocks and opens into a warm hallway. The green wallpaper looks new and the floor freshly waxed. A small table is off to the right, made of cherry oak, glossy under the overhead light. Sitting upon it is a diamond shaped embroidered piece of fabric and a lit candelabra that has barely begun to drip.

“Carlton’s home,” she muses to herself, starting to shrug off her heavy jacket. “I guess he would be.”

Jindosh finds himself wanting to ask who this Carlton is and why he’s staying in Amelia’s apartment. It bothers him and he’s not exactly sure why.

As they go up the carpeted stairs to the second floor, Amelia calls out for Carlton and after a pause, they can hear footsteps from above. Sokolov smirks and jokingly says over her shoulder, “We probably caught him in the middle of an afternoon nap.”

So this man was sleeping in her apartment? The irritation he feels begins to mix with anxiety.

They stop in front of the white wood door at the top and Amelia starts to fiddle with her key ring just as the footsteps reach them. The door clicks and opens swiftly, the smell of honey and bread bursting out of the apartment and filling the staircase in a matter of milliseconds.

Kirin looks over Amelia’s shoulder and into the face of a very, very old man wearing a servant’s attire and a pair of half-moon spectacles that sit on the bridge of his nose and dangle around his neck from a chain. He greets her with a nearly toothless smile and reaches out his hands in a cupped motion. Amelia slips her organic gloved hand into his and he pats it softly.

Jindosh feels embarrassment wash over him.

“Oh, madam it’s been far too long,” says Carlton. “I hope your time away has been beneficial to your research.”

His ‘s’ sounds are accompanied by a soft whistle through his teeth. Carlton backs away so that the pair of inventors can enter the apartment. It’s a small and sort of cramped space. Directly to the right of the entry way there are two large windows overlooking the street and the lines going into the store. They are partially draped with thick green velvet curtains tied back with little golden tassels. There is a wooden coffee table shaped like a circle in the middle of the room atop a rather plain looking red rug along with two large leather couches. Along the walls there are cupboards filled with a mix of tea cups and glass vials. A few silvergraphs are hung up to Kirin’s delight and he notices that she likely took them herself as they were pictures of disassembled inhibitors and enhancers. To the left and a little further down the hall, the room opened up on a kitchenette and a staircase leading up. The kitchen was clean except for some drying dishes and tray with tea on it.

“I’ll take your coat,” Carlton offered. Amelia hands it to him absently, studying the room with a strange look on her face.

In the meantime, Carlton turns to Jindosh and says, “Good evening, my lord. May I take your coat as well?”

Kirin hesitates for a moment, still trying to wrap his head around why Amelia kept this one feeble old man on when she let go of the rest of her servants. But he ultimately sets these thoughts aside and starts to shrug off his heavy wool coat.

“Ah, there we are. Much too warm in here to wear so many layers. It is a pleasure to finally meet your acquaintance sir. Lady Sokolov has always been such a big admirer of yours; I’ve heard so much about you already—,”

Amelia clears her throat, deciding now would be an opportune time to voice her concerns. “Carlton? You’re here just for a scheduled cleaning today right?”

“Oh,” he shuffles to face her, their coats draped over either arm. “Yes, madam.”

“Then why have you prepared tea? Did someone notify you we were coming to the apartment?” She gestures toward the tray and the oven where honeyrolls were baking.

Carlton’s ancient lips part and he stares in confusion for a second before quietly saying, “Well, no madam. Those are for your guests.”

The room is calm and quiet. Amelia glances at Jindosh for a split second, expressing uncertainty. “What guests?”

“Your friends,” Carlton explains, “They said they were friends you made during your trip to Karnaca.”

Amelia’s blood runs cold. The sound of the grandfather clock chiming in the far corner does little to ease her nerves. She looks at Kirin, both of them exchanging looks of alarm.

“It’s,” Kirin starts, “It’s alright. Luca must have heard that I’m here—he might have sent people to collect me. Don’t worry, I’ll talk to them. I won’t let them harm—,”

Amelia rushes forward, grabbing him by his arms and nearly slamming him against the hallway wall. Instead she holds him steadily in place, her face inches from his, and whispers, “Kirin, get down to the carriage. Ride back to the presidium and find the brigadiers. Do not go home, do you understand me?”

Slow footfalls from above start to head toward the staircase and Amelia looks up at them, her grip tightening on his arms. Jindosh starts to feel her fear creeping up on him. He’d never seen her scared before.

“What are saying? You’re coming with me aren’t you—,”

“Kirin,” Amelia shakes him hard to silence him. “Go.”

She starts to forcebly push him toward the doorway when a large man steps into view, blocking the exit completely. His Karnacan winter wear is accented by a pendant on his left breast—the duke’s sigil. Amelia puts herself between Kirin and the man, her enhancer pointed at him, he palm flat. A whirring sound comes from it and the palm expands a bit, lighting up. “Don’t come any closer,” she warns.

The footsteps from above are now descending the staircase and Kirin turns to see four gentlemen wearing similar garb. They reach the bottom of the stairs before saying a word, their expressions calm and collected.

“Mr. Jindosh,” says the man in the middle with the highest-ranking stripes. “I’ll be damned. You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Carlton,” Amelia barks. The old man comes to stand in front of Kirin as well, both coats still in his arms.

“Now now,” says the man, holding up his hands. “Let’s all just calm down. No need to make a mess of this place. Let’s talk.”

“I somehow doubt you all sailed up here to exchange words,” Amelia grunts, not taking her eyes of the larger man. “Be forthright. What are your orders?”

The middle man’s smile falls in disappointment for moment. But then he chuckles to himself and lowers his hands back to his side. “Amelia Sokolov, you’re under arrest for the murder of an unidentifiable man in Karnaca. And now, as well as the kidnapping of a man guilty of treason against Emily Kaldwin. Our orders are to bring you back to Serkonos to face trial for these actions. And Mr. Jindosh, I’m sure the Duke would like us to bring you back as well.”

“Are we bringing him back alive?” Asks the big man blocking the door.

The middle man perks his lips to the side and thinks to himself. He hums, “Well, the Duke didn’t specify. Everyone thinks he’s dead anyway. So I’d say it doesn’t really matter. Whichever is easiest.”

And with that, the large man looked down at Sokolov and took a step forward.

“Bad decision,” says Amelia.

The enhancer’s whirring sound elevates to a high pitched ring and the light grows brighter within a matter of seconds. With a deafening sound and a flash so bright it blinds the room, the enhancer fires a beam of light that blasts cleanly right through the man’s chest, leaving a perfectly circular, cauterized hole the size of a dinner plate. It also went through the wall of the building and the wall of the building next door. Kirin can see into the neighbor’s apartment through the hole in the man’s chest. The large man looks down, shocked as if he hadn’t even felt it, and then slowly crumbles to the floor.

Evreything else happened so quickly that Jindosh barely had the time to process it. The men by the stairs drew their pistols, Carlton threw the coats up into the air and ducked out of the way, and Amelia whirled around, ready to fire again. With her organic arm, she pushed Kirin into the wall to protect him from the onslaught of bullets to come. But in doing so, the inhibitor hit the wall hard enough to shatter the glass and the crystal inside. And with a painful shock that went all the way down to his toes, Kirin fell into darkness.

\--

But not complete darkness.

It was like blinking. One moment his eyes were open and he saw Amelia’s fierce face and cold green eyes then he blinked and he was in the void.

Or, at least, he assumed it was the void. He’d never been here but the second he arrived he knew it was no place grounded in reality. He wonders, looking around at the endless landscape of black rock and grey, starless sky, if he has died. But deep within he can feel his soul tugging at him, like his body was an anchor in the real world and his soul was the chain holding onto him, urging him to come back.

It was cold here, but not like Tyvia was cold. There was no wind and no bite. Just a lack of light and warmth. He stands up—or at least he thinks he does. There is no physical body here that represents Kirin Jindosh, only his subconscious tied to a shadow.

He had often wondered what he might do if he found himself here. But there seemed to be nothing to do—an endless amount of nothing.

Then, in the midst of this devastating emptiness, he hears a sound from behind him and turns to see what has broken the silence. In the distance, along a path of rocks in a sea of black water, he can see a plateau of sorts. And up on the plateau, there is a broken piece of a house.

He moves—seems to float—toward it. And when he’s close enough, he can see that it is a room of an apartment. Two of the walls are gone, allowing him to see clearly what is inside. The two walls that remain are covered in peeling wallpaper colored blue. There is one window and when he looks through it, he can see the streets of Dunwall. People bustling to work, guards standing in position, beggars in the street. But when he floats and peers behind the wall, there is nothing but endless black water and gray skies.

So instead he returns to this scene laid out before him. An apartment building in Dunwall that is worse for wear. A beaten, striped sofa sits against one wall, sandwiched between two different end tables with various medications sitting upon them. There is a rug in the center of the room that has multiple bare spots and snags. The floor itself looks splintered and ragged. A door leading to an empty kitchen is against the other wall. Then, lastly, there is a woman sitting upon the striped sofa. And she is crying.

Her hair is tied back in a mess, orange and the color of rust. Her face is shrouded behind a handkerchief and she is hunched over. Kirin can see that her blouse is thin and old. Through its near transparency, he can see boils on her skin and the sharp bumps of her spine. She was quite ill.

He watches her cry for a long time, wondering why the void was showing him this. Until another figure comes from behind him and passes through him like a ghost. It’s a younger girl with her back to him. Her hair is short and black, pulled back into a clasp in the back. She comes to the woman’s side and kneels down, pulling the woman’s hands away and exposing the woman’s face.

Or the lack-there-of. It was nothing but a milky, smooth slab of skin over a skull. If Kirin were corporeal, it might have frightened him.

“Mother,” says the girl. “You’re not taking your medicine.”

The woman’s face starts to blur like smearing wet ink across parchment. Her eyes form then are blurred and wiped away, replaced by new ones. Her nose and her mouth do the same, constantly changing. And each time, it’s another woman’s face—never quite her own. In a voice that belongs to several different women, the creature says, “I’ve written to him, Millie. These medicines are nothing but placebos. I need a real doctor. He’ll come. And until he does I won’t take any more of this sugar water.”

“Mother, you’ve written him a dozen times. If he were going to help, don’t you think he would have come by now?”

The creature wails and puts its fleshy visage back into its hands. As it resumes sobbing, the girl stands and stares. When she turns to face him, he sees that it’s Amelia—but not his Amelia. She’s younger, maybe twelve or thirteen years old. And as soon as he sees her, the room and everything in it plummets to the black water floor and sinks beneath it.

Kirin, however, is still floating just above. He watches it descend into darkness until another sound catches his attention. Another twenty feet away, there is another scene for him.

“Please,” says the same Amelia. “She’s sick. Some sort of pox. I don’t know what to do.”

This scene is happening on the doorstep of an apartment building. It’s raining, but only from a few feet above the scene itself. Amelia is standing on stone steps leading up to a set of double doors where Anton Sokolov, looking young again, hides partially behind the entryway. Streetlights that aren’t visible to Kirin light up the scene, allowing him to see that Amelia is wearing an oversized coat pulled up over her head. Her legs are bare except for a set of shoes that look soaked. Anton glances warily down the street either way.

“Young lady, I’m sorry. But I can’t help you. I don’t know you or your mother—,”

“H-her name is Ester Gale! She’s thirty three years old and she’s from Morely. She’s a governess, you two met at one of your lectures where she brought her wards. She’s got red hair and brown eyes—,”

“Shh!” Anton extends a hand to shush the girl, his eyes wide. “Alright, yes. Fine. I’ll . . . _damn the void_. I’ll be there in a week with some tonics, alright? But after that, you’ve got to promise me you’ll never come back here and that your mother will stop writing me. Do you understand?”

Again, the scene plummets into the water below and another one forms in the distance.

“He’s coming,” says the mother. “I told you darling. I told you your father is a good man.”

The apartment is back and Ester lays naked upon the striped sofa. Amelia tends to her with a cold wash rag, cleaning the boils on her skin. The young girl is wearing a cloth rag around her nose and mouth, tied in the back. Even so, her skin looks pale and glossy and her eyes are sunken and tired.

“Yes, mother.”

“When he sees me, he’ll know what he’s done,” the creature that is Ester rasps in a hoarse multitude of voices. “He’ll finally understand that he was wrong to leave us. He’s a good man. He’ll feel remorse and he’ll come back to us.”

Amelia coughs into her elbow, hard and raggedly. When she pulls away, the mask is dotted with specks of blood. “I hope so.”

Ester reaches out and touches the girl’s cheek with trembling fingers. “You’re a good girl, Millie. You take such good care of me.”

As this vision sinks beneath the surface, the next one a series of scenes rise from the water and play out for only a matter of seconds before falling back into the depths, causing the dark water to turn into violent waves. Scene after scene of Amelia taking care of her mother while her mother grows increasingly more and more sick. It takes a moment for Kirin to realize these are days that are passing by in front of him in rapid succession. Well beyond a week’s worth.

They appear so quickly, one after the other, and Kirin can’t pick up details from them anymore. The waves are strong and particles of water go flying through the air, the sound deafening, until suddenly all of them sink below the surface at once and the water eases back into a smooth black mirror. Kirin stares, wondering if its over until very slowly, a new one rises from the depths. It’s of their apartment again.

The mother is on the couch, completely unrecognizable. Her hair has fallen out and she looks near-death. Covered almost completely in swollen puss-filled boils, Ester wheezes with every breath. The floor is littered with dirty rags covered in blood and fluids. Tonics and bottles of medication are strewn haphazardly across the splintered floor.

Standing over her mother is Amelia, now looking slightly older. Kirin steps closer to get a better look, curious about this strange behavior. Once he’s closer, he can see that she’s holding something—a butterknife. Realization dawns on him a moment too late. Amelia raises the blade above her head and in a swift, unflinching motion brings the end of it down directly into her mother’s eyesocket. There’s a sharp whine of pain; Ester’s limbs twitch once then twice. Then she goes quiet.

Kirin watches, completely shocked. He tries to look at the girl’s face but her hair—now matted and long—hides her from him. She abruptly sinks to her knees, her face still unseen. Soon her shoulders begin to shake and from her comes a sound Kirin thought he’d never hear. He approaches the plateau, floating above the beaten rug and coming to stand by the young girl’s side. Her face is completely blank of all emotions but tears are streaming down her cheeks. Every other second she’ll let out an involuntary whimper. Then, as the adrenaline and shock subside, her lips start to tremble and the whimpers become hiccups then inconsolable sobs and wails of agony.

How many days, weeks, months had passed? How long had she been living like this? Long enough to break her, it seemed.

Kirin wonders if he can touch this memory—this vision of the past. Part of him warned against it but a much more prominent part of him needed to comfort her in some way. So, gingerly, he reached out a hand.

Before he could make contact, he hears footsteps and the memory of Amelia looks up into the void where one of the walls was missing. There is a long moment of haunting silence where the young girl stares brokenly at whoever has entered the scene.

Then, Anton Sokolov steps into existence, the void forming him out of smoke and fog. He stares in horror at Ester for what felt like an eternity. Kirin starts to think time has stops, but after looking down at Amelia and seeing her shallow breathing, he knows this to be false.

And Anton further proves that as he lunges toward Amelia in a blind rage, pinning the girl to the ground with both hands around her neck. Kirin staggers backward, completely taken aback by this, and watches helplessly as Anton lifts the girl’s head up and slams it back down to the floor, growling incoherently.

Amelia is crying again, her eyes wide and terrified. She claws at his hands around her throat then reaches up to try and push him away to no avail. Her voice is weak and crushed beneath his hands and her face starts to turn a deep red.

“Pl—ple—,” she begs. She touches his face, brushes her hand along his cheek pleadingly.

Kirin doesn’t recognize Anton here. There is a wild pain in the man’s face. He looks vicious and violent but also indescribably devastated.

She killed her—she killed Ester. Sweet Ester. Patient and understanding Ester. And now he was going to choke the life out of her daughter.

 _His_ daughter.

Anton lets go and stumbles backward on the floor, looking terrified of himself. Amelia coughs and gasps for breath, spluttering onto the floor. It takes some time for her to fully recover and once she does, she pushes herself up off of the floor and finally turns to look at Anton.

“Where were you?”

And the scene sinks again. This time, Kirin turns around and there are several scenes lined up for him along a rock path. Without time to truly process what he’s witnessed, he presses forward. To the left, he watches Anton caring for the girl in his private apartment. He gives her a vial of tonic and tells her to drink it all. To the right, he sees the two of them standing in front of a foster home with two strangers. Anton gestures toward Amelia and tells the couple that she is a beggar he found on the street. To the next left, he sees Amelia growing up with a series of different children, each louder and crueler than the next. Then to the next right, he watches Amelia working hard at a desk, reading from several different manuals and transcripts as she teaches herself. Then she is walking with Anton in the Academy, begging him to look at her work which he refuses to do. Then she’s sitting at her desk again, reading another rejected application to the Academy. He watches her grow older, watches her try again and again to gain Anton’s approval. Watches him turn her away. Watches as she grows colder and less feeling. Watches her burn the foster home to the ground. Watches her buy passage on ship bound for Tyvia. Watches the ship engine falter in a storm due to debris in the mechanism. Watches her fearlessly reach her arm into the halted blades to pull the piece free. Watches as it severs her arm off. Watches as she, wounded, finally arrives in Tyvia. Watches her waste no time before enrolling in a school there. Watches her graduate. Watches her succeed. Thrive. Create.

And finally, at the end of this vast expanse of time, Kirin is shown a final scene. The largest yet. He recognizes the green house almost instantly. There is a knock on the front door and soon after, a servant comes to answer it. Anton Sokolov steps into threshold of the home, looking old and frail and more than a little fearful.

Soon after, Amelia comes down the stairs and freezes upon seeing him. There is nothing said for quite some time. Until, finally, Anton says, “It’s been years, Amelia. I’m glad to see you.”

Amelia’s face is devoid of any emotion. She simply says, “Why are you here?”

Anton shifts from foot to foot. Kirin watches him wring his wrinkled hands. He opens his mouth to speak—

\--

“Kirin?”

He blinks.

He’s back in Amelia’s apartment. She’s got him propped against a wall. Her hair is a tangled mess around her face and her brow is covered in a light sweat. She’s missing the enhancer. When he opens his eyes, she lets out a sob of relief and pulls him into her, pressing his face into her shoulder and petting his hair.

“Oh, Kirin,” she whispers. “I thought I’d killed you.”

Kirin wiggles his fingers, trying to get used to having a physical body again. His experience in the void was no dream—it was real. Now he was back. And a little too soon. He’d missed something important.

Sokolov leans back and touches his cheek, rubbing her thumb in soft circles. She’s smiling at him and he’s almost certain he sees her blink away tears. She felt like . . . a new person to him now. He knew so much about her, so much that he could only theorize before.

She was so much _more_ than Anton had ever given her credit for. And now more than ever, Kirin was furious with the old man. How dare Anton keep her from him? She should have been at his side much, much sooner. If Kirin had known her back then—if he’d been given the same choices as Anton—Amelia would be one of the most renowned philosophers in the isles. He would have made certain of it. It’s what she deserved.

Sokolov is speaking to him, filling him in on what happened while he was unconscious. But he can’t process it. Can’t stop thinking about all the time he spent without her.

“. . . I had to replace your whale oil crystal with my own. I was worried I’d waited too long. I had to take out those men then disconnect my enhancer. You were out for a while—,”

“Millie,” he says. It silences her instantly. “I’ve just realized I’ve been in love with you for days.”

\--


	11. The Breaking Point

Chapter 11

TYVIA, THE APARTMENT OF AMELIA SOKOLOV

10th Day, Month of Darkness

“The guard will be here any minute. I suggest you find somewhere else to stay for a while, Carlton. Lida will surely have a vacancy for you at her place. This place is compromised. I wouldn’t be surprised if the green house has been discovered as well.” Amelia shrugs her coat on, ignoring the singed gunshots in the fabric. She throws Kirin his and he catches it lifelessly, his jaw tight. She bends down and searches the leader of the group’s jacket, finding a pouch of coin and a letter. “Here, take this. It’ll help pay for your needs. Also, take the enhancer with you. You probably won’t hear from me for a while.”

Kirin shrugs his coat on and stares down at the lifeless bodies at his feet. Serkonans, the Duke’s men. He thinks about the letter he’d hidden away in the tome by his bed. How he’d asked for Luca to send help. How he hadn’t wanted Amelia’s life to be put in danger. A sick feeling settles in his stomach.

“Come,” she says to him, extending her hand for him to take. “We can’t be seen here.”

“What does it matter?” He accidentally steps in a pool of blood and carefully wipes it off across the polished hardwood. “This is your apartment, they’ll trace this back to you either way.”

“You think this is the first time someone’s tried to kill me?” Amelia sighs, clenching her extended hand into a fist. “Besides, it doesn’t matter what the grand guard think happened. As long as the High Judges back me up, we’re fine. But for the time being, we need to leave quickly so that we aren’t followed.”

“Where will we go?”

She shrugs. By the void, she looked so tired. “I need to speak to the presidium again. They need to know that the Duke is suspicious of me. We’ll probably need to find you another living situation as well. These men were the first to know that you’re alive and I want them to be the last. They’ll send more soldiers when these men don’t report back. I’ll talk to the council and ask them to accommodate you. In the meantime, I’ll head back to the house and collect our things—,”

“By yourself?” Kirin glares in her direction.

“No,” she chuckles lifelessly. “I’ll bring a couple of the brigadiers with me. I got through this little encounter by the skin of my teeth. And now I can’t use my enhancer, seeing as I had to give you my inhibitor to stabilize you. I’m a bit impulsive, but not suicidal.”

“Don’t go back at all,” he urges, stepping toward her as she takes a step back. She won’t meet his gaze and it’s starting to get under his skin. “There’s nothing there that these men are interested in. They’re not bandits.”

Her lips press into a thin line and her eyes glaze over for a split second as she thinks. Ultimately, she says, “Yes, there are. There are things there that I need to . . . collect.”

Kirin is quiet, but only because he cannot decide whether or not to get angry or get desperate. Carlton seems to pick up on Jindosh’s discomfort and turns back toward the kitchenette area, pretending to tidy up the massive mess. Amelia pulls her hair out of the messy tail she’d had it in and attempts to redo it. She’s ignoring him. She’s intentionally dodging him.

When he told her he loved her, he’d been a little dazed. But he was lucid enough to stop himself from saying so if he had wanted to. He’d never been fond of the way noblemen and women danced around in their conversations, refusing to say what they meant, alluding but never confirming. So many of them had tried to dance with him, sing him praises then spurn him in private. Lavish him with compliments and trivial accolades in an attempt to butter him up. And while he enjoyed the sincere compliment or two, he detested this way of living. He preferred to say what he meant without frivolity.

So he meant it. It confused and even scared him a little. But he did care about—no—he did _love_ her. In some shape or form. To the best of his ability.

And she had . . . said nothing. At first he thought a glimpse of something in her expression. Surprise, adrenaline, maybe even fear. But as soon as it came, it went, and she had hardened herself.

“ _You’re confused,”_ she had said with a frown _. “That’s natural. Your inhibitor shattered upon impact. The jolt of electricity to your brain probably stunned you.”_

Then she had gotten up and started giving orders to Carlton.

Kirin would leave it at that for now. Obviously she didn’t feel the same toward him. And that was fine; probably for the best. He had confessed his love to others before and received a similar reaction. There was a bit of disappointment, though. He thought she would different.

Now, as she tries to head toward the door, he places a heavy hand on the wood to keep it in place. She doesn’t look at him, her hand on the doorknob.

“We need to hurry,” she half-whispers.

“Please.” The word felt weird coming out of his mouth. But he poured himself into it nonetheless. “Send the brigadiers to collect your things. Stay in the capitol.”

“Kirin, I’ll be fine—,”

He leans in, cornering her against the hallway wall. It is not an aggressive action; despite his close proximity and the lack of an escape, the gesture feels somehow comforting.

“Amelia,” he says. Her shoulders fall, having been tensed for too long. He watches her brow furrow upward, her jaw clenching. “Stay with me.”

She tries to swallow but it feels as though something is lodged in her throat. Her hand trembles on the doorknob. Weak, she thinks. So damned weak. The enhancer was always steady. He’s so close now. He’s been closer before, though. She had lied with him before, skin touching, entangled in bed. And she’d carried him in her arms. And she’d embraced him before, holding him to her. But this—somehow—felt closer.

And it made her feel soft and helpless. But there was great relief in feeling helpless.

“Alright,” she relents. Her voice sounds so gentle, like the child she never got to be. “If you insist.”

His hand comes up, brushing a strand of hair she’d missed behind her ear. It’s almost too much for her to bear. “Thank you.”

“We best be leaving, madam.” Carlton has moved toward the windows unnoticed. He’s looking down at the street. “You don’t want to be here when the guard arrives. Someone’s likely reported the noise.”

Sure enough, when the three of them emerge back out onto the street, the crowd had scattered and there were little groups gathered on the other side of the street, staring at the building in trepidation. Kirin looks up at Amelia’s apartment as she tugs him toward the carriage and he sees that the beam of light she’d fired had not only gone through the wall, but through the entire apartment next door. Smoke billowed out the other side and people were evacuating rapidly.

“Hurry,” she urges him. “Here come the guard.”

A group of guardsmen in their thick black trench coats storm the area, corralling people away from the scene and beginning their investigation of the apartment. Kirin pulls himself up into the carriage and watches Carlton disappear into the crowd. Soon, though, he notices Amelia as she struggles to pull herself up with one arm. He leans down and picks her up by the waist, pulling her into her seat.

“Are you really leaving the enhancer with him?”

“I have multiples,” she replies, knocking on the roof for the driver to proceed. “And Carlton knows what to do with it.”

The carriage takes them back to the presidium where, surprisingly, Elvira awaits them at the steps. She’s seated on the frozen stone, smoking, with a sharp frown on her face. Sokolov’s face drains of color and she quickly pulls her hair out of the updo, letting it fall in a thick curtain around her neck. As Jindosh helps Amelia out of the carriage, she stands up and tosses the bud onto the ground.

“What the fuck was all that?” Elvira shouts across the yard. “We heard the blast from up here, then communication went dark for a second. Scared Wes shitless.”

“Sorry about that,” Amelia’s strides are long as she clears the distance. “Had a little run-in. I’m fine, we’re all fine.”

“But what happened?” Elvira’s taunting has gone out the window. Now, she keeps up with Amelia’s pace effortlessly with her lightweight legs. “Your enhancers gone. Did it take damage?”

Kirin struggles to keep up with them as they fly up the steps. By the time he’s reached the top, he’s winded but they’re still in the throws of their conversation.

“Yes,” Sokolov lied, “It was destroyed. We were attacked by elite Serkonan guard, sent by Duke Abele. I need to speak with the presidium immediately—,”

“How’s your inhibitor?” the question sends an odd chill down Kirin’s spine. Maybe it was the way she’d asked it or the look on her face. “It must be hurting you without the enhancer. Can I see it—,”

“No,” Amelia snaps, a little too quickly. “It’s fine. You’ve got it backwards. The inhibitor without an enhancer is no threat.”

Elvira stares at her for a long time. A little too long. Then she finally smirks and says, “Very well then. But I’m afraid you won’t be able to speak to the presidium. They’ve adjourned for the day,” Elvira informs. She’s eyeing Sokolov like a predator stalking its prey while Sokolov all but ignores her presence. “You’ll have to wait and speak with them in the morning.”

They’re in the entrance hall now, halted, deliberating. Sokolov is staring at the floor, biting her lip, thinking hard while the brigadier Captain starts to slowly circle her. Kirin takes a step forward and places a hand on Amelia shoulder, if only to stop Elvira’s prowling.

“It’s fine,” he tells her, “We can stay with Lida again. If there are more of the Duke’s men, they’ll never think to look for us there—,”

A slim hand raises to silence him. “No, it’s on the main street. It’d be easy to spot us heading that way, especially if we were followed here.”

“You can stay here for the night,” Elvira suggests with a tight smile. “There’s an abundance of guests rooms here for foreign ambassadors and all that. Besides, they offered to house you here before, didn’t they? I’m sure you’re welcome.”

“I don’t think you have the power to authorize that,” Amelia retorts, skeptical. But she looks drained and tired, unable to muster up a proper argument. Ultimately, she sighs and turns to Kirin. “I guess we don’t have many options. What do you think?”

_What do I think?_ He looks at the brigadier, shooting her a suspicious glare. She maintains her smile. _This one shouldn’t be allowed unsupervised in the greenhouse._

But Amelia was right, there were so few choices here. And he had never felt so tired in his life. He’d been to another plain of existence today, after all. So in the end, he says to her, “It’s just one night. And if there are any issues, this would be the safest place to be.”

Sokolov’s eyes linger on him for a second, studying his expression until she closes her weary eyes and nods in agreement.

“Great,” says Elvira with the clap of her hands. “The council has gone to their respective homes and the rest of the staff should clear out in an hour. We patrol the presidium at night, of course, so we’ll be here when and if you need us.”

Her words are too sweet. Kirin’s eyes narrow even further. Amelia tilts her head a bit, in a sort of skeptical way, then says, “Alright then, it’s decided. But I’m going to need at least two of you to go to the greenhouse and fetch some things for me—things I can’t have falling into the Duke’s hands.”

“Of course,” says the captain. “I’ll personally see to this.”

Now, Kirin didn’t like that at all. But Sokolov like she’s about to collapse and Kirin wasn’t too far behind her. So in the end, Amelia approves of this, scribbles down a list of things for the brigadiers to collect, and Elvira leaves to fetch the others. Sokolov flags down a servant and briefly explains her needs. The woman thinks nothing of it and obliges, leading them toward the guest bedrooms. It was clear, within a matter of moments, that these rooms were indeed for ambassadors and foreign nobility. Kirin’s title of Grand Inventor got him into many pricey hotels and getaways but these were designed with business in mind.

His and her room were identical and directly across from one another. High ceilings, plenty of desk space for meetings, discussions, work. The beds were elaborately decorated but not particularly large or spacious. Accommodations were left and right—various types of brandy, (empty) fruit platters, bells along the walls to call upon servants. But, unlike those fancy rooms Kirin had stayed in not so long ago, these ones had no forms of entertainment or tools relaxation. There were no hookah pipes to be seen and no lounging furniture. The room was also very quiet, almost soundproof, making it easy for visitors to focus. When he was left alone to bathe and unwind, he found the silence oddly unnerving.

But he was alone for only a few moments. Not too long after the servant had left, he heard a knock on the door and opened it for Sokolov to shuffle in unannounced. Kirin stood there, his senses still dulled, a little surprised. But he did not protest.

“I need to see it,” she mumbles, “For just a moment.”

“See what?” he asks, rightfully confused. Despite this, he’s perfectly calm.

“The inhibitor.” She’s moving from one foot to the next, her hands clenching and unclenching. She still looks tired but there’s something else itching her. “Just for a few moments.”

Upon taking a closer look, he notices a single bead of blood in one of her nostrils. He glances down at her hands again and sees dried trails of red where she’d been quickly wiping it away. When he returns his gaze to her face, the drop has slithered down her lip and chin.

“Alright,” Jindosh relents. He’s concerned for her, of course, but a more sinister part of him—perhaps the scientist—is curious to see where this leads. He turns around and instantly feels her cold fingers pressing a series of indentions around the metal rim. With a sickening feeling, the needles unlatch from his skin and he feels his stomach turn. She tugs on it and not as gently as he would like her to. There’s a final, thicker needle in the center that’s plunged into a central nerve. She plucks it out and his brain seems to fizzle like expensive champagne. His knees buckle and he just barely catches himself against the wall.

“Fuck,” he mutters, rubbing at the sensitive skin. “That can’t be good for me.”

“It’s not good for anyone, really,” she admits. He turns his chin so that he can look at her over his shoulder. She’s brushing her hair out of the way, struggling with a single shaking hand to put the inhibitor in place.

Having regained some of his motor functions, he reaches out and grasps her wrist, offering to do it for her. Within a second or so, she’s kneeling on the floor while he sits on the edge of his bed, carefully lining up the incision point. It’s an easy task—the entry for the central needle is a metal hole she’d installed in her neck. It felt so strange, running his fingers over the cool iron then her warm skin. Organic and mechanical, all at once.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, head bowed. “For today. For everything.”

“Please,” he scoffs, twisting his mouth to help concentrate. “This isn’t my first assassination attempt. I’m no novice.”

She chuckles a little, trying not to move. He smiles a bit.

The central needle clicks into place. He makes sure the prongs are in place, then asks, “Alright, how do I activate it?”

“Press the center down. It should—,” he does so as she says it. The jolt of electricity causes her to wince. “—latch.”

“Oops,” Kirin pats her shoulder. Then, in a more serious tone, he asks, “Are you going to tell me why you deteriorated so fast without it?”

She sighs and he watches her broad shoulders sink a bit. Watches dark strands of hair fall along her back. “What an oddly appropriate word . . . well. You can’t predict everything right? Today is proof of that. And when I invented the enhancers, I didn’t predict that the physical toll on my cerebellum. I went . . . what? A year or so using my prototype enhancer without any sort of protection for my brain. And it sort of melted it a bit. Using an inhibitor helps and reverses the damage. But if I’m without it for too long . . . well.”

“So we only have one?” Kirin asks, unwittingly reaching down and pulling her hair back, carefully braiding it. His mother had taught him once, so long ago that it was only muscle memory for him now. “We’re going to have to share it. For how long?”

“Not long,” she sighs, lost in thought. “Hopefully. I asked them to bring another inhibitor. Said it was for you.”

“Why lie?” he asks. “Why not just tell them the truth? They have their own enhancers; wouldn’t they somewhat understand? Maybe not from a _technical_ standpoint. but—”

She’s quiet for a second, then glances at him over her shoulder. “No, they can’t know. If they found out I’m not wearing it . . . they’d probably try to kill me.”

Jindosh blinks, then shakes his head. “Why, because you operated on them?”

“When they were prisoners, yes. I gave them a choice—go back to the prison camps in the middle of the frozen tundra or allow me to give them implants. It wasn’t much of a choice, I suppose. A life of imprisonment or freedom for a blood price. I knew what I was doing. I’d do it again. The results are unquestionably worth it.”

A shiver runs up his spine but he’s not afraid. He’s thrilled. He’d done the same thing, after all. And the very notion that she might have been inspired by his studies pumped the blood through his heart.

She continues. “But I knew they’d probably try to kill me some day or another. So this inhibitor—my inhibitor—if the brain its connected to were to suddenly go dark, it would detonate the other inhibitors and take out the brigadiers with me.”

This time, the shiver that runs through him is indeed based in fear. “I-is mine—?”

“No!” She spins around, taking his hands in her own. “I would never. It’s only theirs. I have villagers who I’ve given inhibitors to as well and theirs aren’t set to detonate. Those who pose no threat don’t require precautions.”

“Hm,” he sneers, mildly offended. “I don’t know if I like the way you phrased that but I am relieved to hear it. So earlier, when you disconnected it from your brain stem—,”

“When Elvira said the connection went dark, that was when I removed it and gave it to you. Detaching it is like turning it off and on and doesn’t trigger anything. Otherwise I’d have a problem every time the whale oil crystal ran out, you see?”

“Couldn’t they simply wait until that happens to kill you? When you’re most vulnerable?”

Her face sours. “You’re making me rethink you as a threat. But to answer your question, yes. They could. But they’ve yet to try it.”

Kirin looks down at her hand in his own. It looked so frail compared to the missing metal counterpart. Little scars and blemishes from hard work over the years. Years that he’d witnessed in a dream-like state. Before he knows it, he’s gently running his fingers over the pale skin, deep in thought. Should he tell her about the experience in the void . . . ?

“Listen,” she murmurs. He snaps out of his stupor and realizes she’s cast her eyes to the floor. He’d never seen her like this before. “I don’t know if you remember. But you said something strange after you woke up back in the apartment. D-don’t worry, I brushed it off. I’m sure you were just stunned. But I . . . I’m wondering now if maybe you remember? If you meant it?”

She looks up at him. She has her father’s eyes—green like the void-forsaken pines in the Tyvian wilderness. Cold and full of scrutiny and critique. But they aren’t her father’s eyes, they’re her own. Just as horribly cold and analytical; but when she looks at Kirin he can sense that she’s reserved a piece of herself just for him. The only little piece of anything good and kind left in her over the years, something she’s protected and hidden carefully, and she’s reserved it just for him.

And he wonders, looking down at her, if she maybe does this out of love. Platonic love, yes, but perhaps something more?

“I remember,” he says softly. Or, as soft as he can make his voice go. “Do you think I meant it?”

An anxious energy seems to wash over her. She looks away.

He leans forward a bit and asks in the calmest way possible, “Amelia?”

Something’s swelling up inside of her. He can see her lip tremble a bit and he wonders if he’s about to actually see her break down. But she swallows and knits her brow together in frustration, squeezing his hand. “No, I don’t think you did.”

“I said what I said, didn’t I?” he frowns at her. “What, do you think I was lying?”

“No,” she replies, looking more and more downtrodden by the minute. “I just think you’re confused. We’ve been alone together for months . . . you’ve had no contact with anyone other than me. I’m worried that what you’re feeling is more along the lines of dependency. But above all else . . .” here, she hesitates. It takes her a long pause to work up the courage to say, “I think you love the Sokolov part of me. I think if I were any other arbitrary inventor in the isles, you wouldn’t be feeling this way. But I’m _his_ daughter, his only legitimate heir, so I’m just . . . I’m just worried that that’s what is influencing you.”

Kirin sits in silence, absorbing her concerns and reflecting upon himself. Was she right? Maybe at the beginning of their relationship, yes. But since then he’s almost completely separated his mental image of her from her father. And as she mentioned him, it had even confused Kirin a bit. _What does that old river crust have to do with anything?_ Then Kirin remembers a conversation he’d had with her weeks ago where she had confided in him, admitting that Anton Sokolov was the reason she existed, the reason she created, the reason she clawed and fought to survive. She hated him and lived in spite of him but simultaneously, she was paranoid and self-conscious of his influence in her life.

So, naturally, she would be worried that Kirin’s affection for her was simply a biproduct of his admiration for her father. Kirin wanted to call her concerns ridiculous but he found himself unable to. After all, a part of him was attracted to her _because_ she lived to spite her father.

Perhaps he would have questioned his subconscious motives further had it not been for the sympathy he felt for her in this moment. If he did not love her, then why was he so worried for her? Did she really think that, after all this time they’d been together, that she was not his friend? That he did not admire her or consider her a worthy intellectual equal? Did he not make that clear, could he have done more?

“Oh, my dear,” he says. He’s never been particularly good at comforting others. But for her he would make an effort. “Are you going to let him take this from you too?”

At long last, tears start to roll down her face. He wonders when the last time she cried was; he’d seen her do it once, maybe twice in her life. And now he’s here to witness the rarity for himself. She cries silently and motionlessly, hardly shuddering, but he can see the pain in her reddening eyes. He smiles tenderly, cupping her face in his hands. She seems to melt into his touch, reaching up to place her hand against one of his own. She sniffles.

Kirin offers her a crooked grin and laughs, “Besides, what is that ancient bastard even up to nowadays? He seems to have fallen off everyone’s radar. He’s hardly relevant anymore—,”

“He’s dead.” She tells him, looking down at the floor wearily. There’s a sort of glaze over her eyes. “I killed him a month before I came to get you. You ought to know, before this goes any further. He’s dead.”

Jindosh was typically very quick to process information. On very rare occasions, he’d hear news that would slow everything down to a grinding halt, keeping him from fully comprehending. This was one of those occasions.

His hands flinch away from her face, then fall like dead weights to his side. “You . . . what?”


End file.
